Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades
by Dex1
Summary: Sam goes back to school and Dean finally finds his home. The Winchesters get the future they deserve. Snippets and scenes from the brother's lives to come, the good and bad, the happy and the sad.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing Supernatural.

**Author's Note:** So Vicki and I were watching Provenance and we decided that if Sam and Sara ever had kids they would be, not only brunette, but likely freakishly tall. Which became an even more amusing image once we decided they of course would be girls.

Well, if Sam had girls, surely Dean would have boys. And those boys would end up getting rescued by their girl cousins, because, you know, they're bigger.

But who would Dean be with? Certainly not Cassie, or Jo. No, the only other girl on the show worth liking is Ava, whom, upon further consideration, we decided would be perfect for Dean. Because they're both rather flighty, somewhat dense-seeming, but entirely loveable none the less. And certainly their boys would be too. Obviously.

* * *

She's twelve years old. Twelve. No way she should be this tall, already with her nose level to his shoulders. And her sister, even at eight, isn't far behind. Which he notices when they both rush past him at seven in the morning, nearly tackling him in the hall during a race for the bathroom. So much for taking a leak. 

"Damn," he mutters, regaining his balance as Rachel turns to him, pissed as hell and banging her fist on the door just slammed in her face. "Little sisters, eh?" he yawns out, running fingers through his bed-bent hair. "Almost as bad as little brothers, I bet."

She scowls at him, all preteen rage and ennui, before letting her lips fall into a coy smirk, oddly reminiscent of his own. "Dad was never _that_ bad," she says, just enough sarcasm filling the words to make him smile.

And speak of the devil, "Dad was never what now?" he hears from behind, turning to see Sam awake, dressed, and ready to go. Always a morning person, the jerk.

"Don't worry about it," he says simply.

"Dad," Rachel huffs, effectively drowning out her uncle's words. "Maya's hogging the bathroom again. I'll never get in, and I have to take a shower and dry my hair, because I'm not going to school with wet hair again. It isn't fair. And she elbowed me in the side to get in there. Hard. Might have cracked a rib."

"I doubt it, Rache," he says with a grin before turning to Dean and inquiring, "Boys up yet?"

"Nope, not exactly early risers."

"Shocking."

"Daaaaad," Rachel whines. "Wet hair, broken rib? A little help."

Sam leans forward, into the door and knocks once. "Be quick, kiddo," he says, and is met with a grumbled, _whatever_, drown out by running water.

"Hey," Dean says, stepping up, "If anybody gets the bathroom it should be me. Gotta pee like a racehorse." Rachel rolls her eyes, which makes him smile even wider. "Besides, I'm the guest."

"He's got a point," Sam says, throwing his arm across his brother's shoulders. "You can use our bathroom," he tells him, earning a deflated whine from his daughter.

On the way to Sam's room Dean almost gets trampled by the tall brunette hopping out the door, one heel on, the other dangling loosely by its strap from her finger. "Oh, sorry," she says, falling into him, grabbing his arm to steady herself so she can put on the other shoe. "I'm late."

"It's barely time to wake up and you're already late?"

She grins, wide and bright, the exact smile that made his brother fall head over heels for her some fifteen years before, and ruffles his hair like a child. "So cute," she murmurs, dropping her hand from his hair to his cheek in a quick tight pinch, before prancing by, tall enough in her heels to tower over his bed rumpled, slouched frame.

"Like living in a house full of Amazons," he says, pushing off the wall.

It's another hour before the kids are set to leave, Rachel and Maya, clean, dressed and well-fed, with backpacks full of checked homework, signed permission slips and healthy lunches. Sammy's kids, no doubt. Even Maya, who has no desire to be a good, organized student, or a good organized person for that matter, has no choice, what with the house being full of oh-so-perfect overachievers.

And then there're the boys. Michael at six is every bit the tiny tornado, ADHD, flying high on sugar, kind of kid that sends kindergarten teachers into early retirement. And John's not much better, having only two years on his brother. If Sam's girls represent the consummate _ideal _children – the kind that are really just smaller, less intellectual adults – then Dean's boys would be the _trouble with a capital T, boys will be boys, my God would you grow up already_, type.

And he can't help but smile at that. Because they seem to him to have the type of childhood he had never been allowed, but so craved. Full of fun, smiles and laughter and carefree ways. It's true, there are times he thinks his boys aren't thinking at all, maybe aren't even capable of it. But at least that means they aren't thinking awful, tedious thoughts that no boy their age should be capable of forming.

"So I drop off and you pick up?" he asks Sam to clarify. His brother merely nods, downs the rest of his coffee and heads for the door, dropping kisses on his daughter's heads as he goes. "Okay then," he says absently before turning to the kids, clapping his hands together and issuing out, with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm, "Let's go!"

There's no arguing about it, it's just the way things are. The girls are easier, whether it's because they're girls, or because they have so much of Sam in them, or Sarah for that matter, or simply because they were, for lack of a better term, raised right. Because, really, unless it comes to his kids' safety, Dean doesn't say no, doesn't know how to be strict. And his wife's just as bad, maybe even worse. So, yeah, he admits it, in contest for father of the year, if it was between him and Sam, well, really there'd be no contest. Because everything that annoyed him so much about his little brother when they were younger, his think first _then_ shoot mentality, his think first _then_ speak ability, his controlling, planning, _gotta know what you're getting yourself into_ attitude – it's all part of what makes him a great dad now.

Plus, he and Sarah both have a sense of humor, a sense of fun. So it's really not _too_ strict in the younger Winchester household. Though, it's not nearly as fun as the elder's.

But that's really the point, isn't it? Michael and John have great fun. They've never once said the dreaded, _I hate you, Dad_ to Dean, which he's heard come from his nieces' mouths on several occasions. Hell, Rachel's favorite phrase until the age of four was "Mean Daddy". Dean never got a "Mean Uncle," and everyone knows why. When he babysat – and man, that seems like so long ago, before Maya or the boys were even really thought of – he'd let Rachel stay up as late as she wanted, eat all the ice cream she could hold, watch classics like the Labyrinth, even though the creepy-ass goblin Muppets gave her nightmares. Because, c'mon, really, what's the harm? She's a kid, let her act like one.

It wasn't until Michael was two and he came across his young sons playing a game in the living room one day, dubbed Head-Butt, that he realized kids can't just run around acting like kids 24-7, they'll kill themselves. And all it took was seeing his four-year-old run headfirst across the room at his brother, tiny head of hair connecting hard with poor Michael's baby fat ass, sending him flying. Into a wall. Which he, of course, bounced off of, landing with a mixture of laughter and tears choking up his windpipe.

Boys will be boys.

Since then he's tried to maintain some sense of order, set down some general guidelines. But he still travels a lot. And Ava's kind of flighty. And the boys really are quite the handful, so much easier to just placate them and entice them with a cookie, then to play the bad cop and make them follow orders. Especially when both of them seemed to somehow inherit their uncle's droopy, manipulative puppy dog stare.

Which Michael had just used in order to gain the coveted spot in the front seat, promptly sending his older brother into tears. And how many times had he had the _man up_ discussion with John? A dozen? A hundred? The boy was just too emotional, too fragile. Where he got it from was anybody's guess, although his mother would be a safe bet. Sure, once they tracked her down years ago, pulled her from the demon's grip, de-evilized her, then she seemed to take things pretty much in stride. But accidentally drop and break a pitcher on the kitchen floor, and she's literally crying over spilled milk.

"Stop it," he says, glaring at his teary son through the rearview mirror. And that only makes him sob louder. "C'mon, buddy," he tries, a little softer. But to no avail. He lets out a deep sigh while backing out of the driveway, barely remembering to crane his head back on the left to see past that damn bush Sam still hasn't taken out.

There are a lot of things around here Sam hasn't taken care of yet. The light switch to nowhere – it does something, they're sure of it, just haven't gotten around to finding out what. Or that bottom step on the front porch that always creeks and will probably give way when one of the kids bounces down it one day. These are the little things that Sam doesn't have time for, being so busy at work, but Dean wouldn't hesitate in taking care of. Because it's dangerous not to know where and how things are wired in your own house. And it's just plain irresponsible to let your wife and children step on something that could collapse at any moment.

This is why Dean decided to strip and fumigate the entire house after finding evidence of mold. Sure it was just a tiny spot, and they never said it was serious, toxic mold, but you never know. Better safe than sorry. Besides, he knew his family would have a place to stay for the week-long endeavor. Even if it did mean having kiddy carpool duty in the mornings.

And come on, it's not exactly a chore to drag those two girls around, though living with them at times can be pure hell – _Uncle Dean you shouldn't eat that. Uncle Dean you know the rules, no more than ten minutes in the shower. Uncle Dean, Michael just put my earring up his nose._ But right now, for example, Rachel's doing what Dean seems to always have so much trouble with. She's getting John to stop crying.

"Now pick another one," she says to him, enthralling the boy with her homemade fortune teller.

Dean shakes his head, kids still do that, make those things? "You know, fortune telling's considered to be evil by most religions," he tosses back at her. She glares at him, lips in a firm line, and he can't help but laugh when she keeps that expression but adds some eye rolling to the mix, just for good measure. Because it's just so Sam.

He drives on, school being nearly thirty minutes away – stupid overpriced private school. But, hey, it's safe, and a lot closer to his home than Sam's, so he worries at least a little less with the kids being there. A little.

And by the time he drops them off Michael seems a bit less jumping-off-the-walls, John's stopped crying, and even Maya, who spent the better half of the morning sulking for God knows what reason, has a pleasant smile on her face when she waves goodbye. Now if things at work could always be as easily fixed. Maybe he should bring Rachel along just in case.

When he gets back later that evening he finds his wife in the kitchen, cooking on a stove that isn't hers, and humming to herself as she does so. And he loves it.

Every day's a little different now, maybe not quite as exciting, adrenaline fueled, as being on the road, hunting, but this new life just never ceases to put a smile on his face. And, it seems, more than anyone, he has her to thank for that. Say what you will about Ava Winchester. She's flighty and flaky, taking off in the middle of some such task to go take care of something else. Interrupting even her own thoughts and sentences with completely random tangents. ADHD for the psychic wives and mothers of the new millennium.

But she's also kind and trusting and the best mother those boys could have, even if she does occasionally forget the sandwich part of their packed lunches and needs constant reminders about, well, everything in their schedules. She's not afraid to make a fool of herself for their amusement, even in public. And no matter how many times they argue, say they're too old, she never lets them leave the house without a hug, a _love you_. A smile.

And she is, he decided long ago, the best wife a man could have. The best friend, even. Because she listens without judging, about things others would find horrifying, like their lives. But hey, it's her life too, the demon, his plans…if she can deal with that, the occasional restless spirit hunt shouldn't ruffle her feathers in the least.

She harbors the excitement of a little girl while maintaining enough composure to make her seem calm, cool, collected. And she makes him laugh. God, does she make him laugh. Between her odd little observations of life and her random speed talking spurts, and her inability to care what others think, to get embarrassed.

And she's an animal in bed, which, let's face it, pretty much sealed the deal for Dean.

So, yeah, woman like that in his life…never a dull moment. Which is why, perplexed though he may have been at seeing his two sons frolicking through the front yard wearing nothing but swim trunks and pink bike helmets, and having the time of their lives so it seemed, he was not particularly taken aback.

"Why," he starts, upon entering the kitchen, "are our children wearing helmets?" It's a simple question, one of curiosity, like so many in others in his odd little family. _Why does the dog have a place setting at the table? Why is all my underwear suddenly pink? Why is the furniture in the living room moved around, again?_

She's bent over the stove, stirring…something. Something that smells unbelievable. Because when it comes to things like paying the bills or doing laundry, she may be too distracted to figure it out. But when it comes to cooking, the woman can focus. "Safety," she says with a shrug, holding a wooden spoon filled with marinara on it for him to taste. He leans in and blows on the hot liquid before lapping it up. "Garlic?" she inquires. And he responds with a nod, even though it tastes perfect just the way it is.

Leaning back on the counter, he gazes out the window at his boys, running, tripping, falling all over each other. "You do realize they're just in the front yard?" he says, one eyebrow cocked.

"A lot can happen in a front yard. They could get hit by a car. Mauled by a bear." He laughs and shakes his head at her. "What? We're near-ish the woods. Could be bears."

"I doubt it."

"Me too." The simmering pot is topped off and Ava turns from the stove, into the arms of her husband. Admittedly, this is her favorite place to be. Not just entwined with him, but here, in…someone's kitchen, smelling her own creation on the stove, hearing her own creations play outside. And yes, safe and warm in his embrace. After all, he was the first – since the demon, because of the demon – and still is the only one who can truly make her feel that way.

"So," he says into her hair, her forehead when she cocks her face up towards his. "What's with the helmets?"

"Apparently Michael hurt himself at the park today – Sam and Sarah dropped them on their way out. Well, dropped them _off_, not _dropped them_. That's not how he got hurt. He fell, I think, or tripped or something, wasn't very clear. Then he hit his head on a fence… or something. I don't know. It didn't leave a mark, though. But he was crying and Rachel had to carry him all the way home, piggyback, even though she just kept telling him that he wasn't really hurt. Now she's apparently tired of _tending to his booboos_, I think she called it, so she gave him her old bike helmet. For protection. Safety."  
"And John?"

"Jealous. Maya leant him hers."

"Good kids, our nieces."

"Mmm, and tall."

"Well, what do you expect?"

"You mean about being tall? Because, yeah, your brother and his wife, hello! Or you mean about being good kids? Because that one seems pretty obvious too."

"What do you mean," he asks pulling away from her a bit.

"I mean, you're family's all about taking care of others. Whether it's other family members or friends, or total strangers who happen to have the same demonically given gift as one of you."

"Yeah, I guess so," he says softly, nuzzling her hair. It's true too. That's just the way the Winchester's were raised. All of them. And since the girls were older than his boys, well, that's just how it goes – elder cares for younger.

Even if the elder is a girl. And that girl, with all her training and physical prowess – because come on, nearly 5' 7 at twelve, that's just ridiculous – beats up a ten-year-old bully, thus causing a seemingly defenseless, cry-baby of a boy to be endlessly ridiculed at school for letting said _girl_ fight his battles for him. Of course, to John's credit, he did agree to then take _fighting_ _lessons_ from his cousin.

Even Maya, who's only a few months older, though light years ahead on the maturity scale, stood up for Johnny and told anyone who laughed at him that she'd kick their ass. Which earned a near suspension from school, and a proud smile and pat on the back from Uncle Dean. Even if he would have preferred for his boy to stand up for himself.

But sometimes that's just the way it is. Kids aren't always as you want them to be. John's not tough and manly, probably never will be. Michael's not very good at school, which Dean never thought he or Ava would have minded, seeing as how neither of them did particularly well either. But when it's your child, and you see their entire future ahead of them, so many open doors, should they wish to enter, suddenly things like a good education push their way to the forefront.

And it was the same with the girls too. Art is Sarah's life. It's her job, her family legacy, what with her father's love of all things aesthetically pleasing, especially her mother, who not only was an artist, but was _art_ embodied. So Sarah had high hopes when she gave Rachel her first set of Crayolas, even higher ones with her first finger paints. She was going to be the next Monet, Picasso, hell, she'd even settle for Jackson Pollack. But Rachel's flung paint looked nothing like art. And she was cursed with dreaded stick person artistry, just her uncle.

And Maya, poor Maya, who struggles in school, spends hours tediously working her way through assignments. She's smart, no doubt about it. But a slow reader with no real desire to improve her skills. Mildly dyslexic, if you can believe that. From Sam's very loins. And she's a klutz, constantly tripping over her own two, too big feet. Which, really, Sam always did at her age, even does sometimes now, though he'd never admit it.

But nobody's perfect.

"Hey," Maya says, entering the room and looking a little more upbeat than her usual, moody self. "Smells good."

Ava smiles broadly, no stranger to compliments on her cooking, which she usually does for the entire Winchester clan at least once a week, but blushing at them all the same. "Thank you." She turns back to the stove as she speaks, words tossed behind her shoulder at her niece. "It's almost ready. Why don't you go get the boys."

Maya nods before peeking her head out the door and hollering to them, "Dinner!" Then again when neither responds, "John, Michael, food!"

Still nothing.

It's not that they don't listen. They're good kids, really. But sometimes they just get stuck in their own little play worlds and don't pay a bit of attention to the things going on outside of them. And Maya knows this.

Dean watches closely as she retreats and heads for the pantry. He's just about to ask her if she wants him to get them when he sees what she's doing: crumpling up huge wads of aluminum foil in her hands to form large shiny balls.

He cocks his head at her, follows with his eyes as she leans through the door and chucks the balls at his boys. Kathunk, cling! For such a klutz, she has good aim. They bounce right off their little pink helmets. Both boys turn to see what it was that hit them and remain transfixed when spotting the foil. Because it's shiny, especially in the early evening sun. And, strange though it may be, Dean's boys are always taken with shiny things.

"Dinner!" she yells, convinced they've reentered reality, even if they are still stuck staring at gleaming little balls in the grass. But she was right, it worked. They hear her clearly and jump up, barreling towards the door.

Maya moves quickly out of their way, hopping behind the door with a squeal as they race through. Too fast, too hard. John, ever the competent, _look where you're going_, one, manages to slide-stop just before running into the table. But John never looks ahead. Ever. So it's no surprise when a cringe-yielding crash sounds, Johnny's helmeted head connecting and then bouncing off the kitchen wall.

He comes away smiling, of course.

Maya, from behind the door, rolls her eyes, attempting an expression as serious and comical and distressed as her sister had perfected years ago.

And Ava, looking over to her husband, sharing an amused smirk with him, says simply, "See, for safety."

No, his family wasn't perfect. He had Amazonian nieces who couldn't draw or read. He had one son who cried like a baby for no reason and let his _girl_ cousins beat up bullies for him. He had another son who ran into walls for fun. He had a wife who could never remember pay the phone bill, despite being a psychic. He had a sister-in-law who pinched his cheeks and tried to talk about postmodern something or other with him. He had a brother who was always on his case about just about everything.

He had, so it seemed, everything he could ever ask for. And more.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: It was supposed to be a one shot...now I suppose it's a double shot.

* * *

"Mom! John's crying again!" is the first thing he hears when he walks through the door.

No, _welcome home_. No, _hi daddy._ No, _how was your day?_ In fact, after spending a good, long twelve hours at the office, the only greeting Sam gets upon arriving home, other than the sound of his nephew sobbing and youngest daughter screeching, is a firm headbut from a little boy in a pink bike helmet.

"Whoa, there," he says, grabbing a hold of Michael's shoulders as he rears back, preparing for another ram. "Take it easy, killer."

The six-year-old's face splits with glee as he turns and hops away, singing at the top of his lungs, "Killer, killer, killer!" And Sam merely drops his eyes and shakes his head.

"I's just trying to help," he hears John hiccup through tears as he enters the kitchen. Sarah's bent low over the table, soft, long fingers kneading the little boy's shoulder.

"I know," she says simply, sincerely.

Sam leans on the doorframe, asks, "What happened?" but is thoroughly drown out by Maya.

"I don't need your help!" she shouts with as much eight-year-old annoyance as she can muster. "I didn't _ask_ for your help!"

And before the warning, "_Maya_," falls from Sam's lips, before Sarah's silencing hand drops onto her daughter's arm, John lets out another ear splitting, heart wrenching shriek.

"Okay, it's okay," she coos in his ear, glaring daggers at her young daughter. "Maybe we all just need a break, huh?" John continues to whimper, but ceases the sobs as he takes in his aunt's cheery tone. He was getting frustrated, with his homework, with his cousin, with his cousin's homework. A little bit of pre-dinner television certainly seemed in order.

"Finally," Maya huffs, slamming shut her book and heading for the door. She stops short when Sam's hand falls to her shoulder, and when she looks up at him she knows exactly what he's thinking. Because Daddy doesn't have to say a word to tell you he's disappointed in you. He doesn't have to utter a single syllable to let you know that you were wrong.

She lets out a sigh and turns slowly, looking bashfully at still-teary John. "Sorry," she mumbles, as much of an apology as her pride will ever allow her to offer. "C'mon, let's see if Oprah's on."

John jumps up and follows hot on his cousin's heels, smile perking the edges of his face into two deep dimples. Sam and Sarah both are so relieved by the sight that neither even think to prohibit the viewing of Oprah. What are the odds this episode will be about living on the down-low again anyway?

"There's something wrong with that kid," he says under his breath, careful not to be overheard from the other room, as he moves toward his wife, unknotting his tie.

Sarah stands up and leans into him exhaustedly. She'd only been home for two hours herself, taking off a bit early to make sure she was home by the time the kids got off school, and already she was craving the manic predictability of work.

The girls usually weren't too bad. Once Rachel hit twelve, and a mature twelve she was, what with being labeled two-going-on-thirty just ten short years ago, they decided that the girls could spend that hour between getting home from school and Sarah coming home from work, alone. Which actually rarely happened anyway, both girls being involved in so many after-school activities it would make your head spin.

But this week Sam and Sarah were watching the boys, and no way were they going to entrust those two to a twelve-year-old. There were times they barely trusted themselves with them.

"There's nothing wrong with him," she murmurs into his chest, eyes falling shut as she drifts further into his solid frame. "He's just emotional."

"Ava's not even that emotional and she's nine months pregnant. And, you know, crazy."

Sarah pulls back and slaps him playfully in the arm. It was true of course, but, "That's not nice."

"Seriously though," he starts, heading over to the counter to peruse the vegetables Sarah had been chopping, abandoned to quell John's shrieks, "Maybe he needs some therapy."

"Sam, he's just expressive. And he's going through a tough time right now, new baby and all, that's an adjustment."

"He's thrilled about the baby, and he's always been…like this."

She pushes him out of the way so as to return to her cooking, hip checking him and knocking him off balance. Snickering to herself she asks, "How do you know?"

"Uh, I've been around him his whole life. And I can barely remember a single day that he hasn't gone from big smile to fat tears in the drop of a hat. Or a plate," he finishes with a smirk, recalling the events of last Christmas when John accidentally dropped a plate, breaking it at his feet. He cried even through dessert, despite everyone telling him it was no big deal. Later he insisted that they bury the felled piece of china, even though the ground was frozen and covered in eight inches of snow, because he at least owed it that.

"No," she says, ignoring his little recollection, "I meant, how do you know he's so excited about the baby?"

"Oh, he told me." Steam rises from the pot of boiling water on the stove as Sam lifts the lid, inspecting, as he so often does, every detail of her preparation methods.

She turns to him, raises one eyebrow in that _knock it off_ way she has, and he replaces the lid, crosses his arms over his chest and leans on the counter, careful not to touch or inspect anything else. Turning back to her zucchini, she rolls her eyes in mock annoyance. "Ava wasn't so sure how either of them would react. She said Michael seems unfazed, but she couldn't read John too well. I think that's part of the reason she was so concerned about leaving them for a few days."

"Not like she has much choice," he offers. "They've got enough to deal with right now."

This little vacation from the boys had been planned for months, ever since they scheduled the C-section. With Ava being laid up for a bit after the surgery this evening, and Dean no doubt wanting to be by his wife's side, as well ogling the new baby, Sam and Sarah keeping the boys for a few days seemed like the best option. Besides, they'd see them in the morning when the whole family would head to the hospital to meet the newest Winchester.

"I know," Sarah agrees, dumping the veggies into a skillet. "It's just an adjustment, and I think she's concerned about how he'll handle it."

"You mean because he's _special_?" he says, coy smile on his lips.

"He's not retarded, Sam," she counters, trying to be stern but unable to keep the grin from her own face.

He laughs. "I know, I know. He's _sensitive_."

"You know," she begins, waving a slotted spoon in his general direction, "some of the other Winchesters could probably take a lesson from him on how to express their emotions."

Snorting indignantly, he says, "Crying incessantly over everything is not a healthy way of dealing with your emotions."

"Neither is bottling it all up until…"

"Stop right there." He straightens himself up and looks her tensely in the eyes. "I don't bottle – "

"Yeah right, and neither does Dean. Which is hysterical really, since he's just as emotional as his son."

"Please."

"It's true, he just – "

"Controls it?"

She sighs, turning back to the stove and lifting the lid off the simmering pot, preparing to dump in the spaghetti. "I wasn't really talking about either of you anyway. You're daughter's the one who has real difficulty expressing herself."

"What?" he asks incredulously.

"She's not dealing with this learning disability very well, Sam. You know that."

His posture stiffens, muscles tensing, torn between being simply offended or downright angry. "She's eight-years-old."

"I know how old she is, Sam. I gave birth to her, remember?"

"She's eight-years-old, she shouldn't have to _deal_ with anything."

"This coming from the guy who had his first handgun by eight."

"Exactly my point."

"Look," Sarah says, setting aside all the cooking and turning to her husband with a calm expression. "I know you want things to be different for our kids, different from how things were with you. But life's not perfect. And neither are they. And the fact of the matter is that Maya _has to_ learn how to deal with this if she's ever going to _learn_."

He drops his head and mumbles, "Maybe if they stopped giving her so much homework."

"Yeah, or maybe we could talk them into giving her no homework at all. That way she'd never have to suffer through any of it, unlike every other kid on the planet."

"She's not every other kid on the planet, Sarah."

"I know that."

"She's my kid."

"I know." She presses herself up against him, rests her head on his chest and listens to his steady breaths as she repeats, "I know." And he lets out a long sigh, tension filtering from his body, leaning further into his wife, his home.

They remain for a moment, each finally beginning to relax when a large crash sounds from upstairs causing them to jolt. Before either has a chance to react they hear the thumping scamper of little feet moving quickly down the stairs as "I'm gonna kill you!" resounds through the house in echoes of their eldest daughter's voice.

Michael scrambles quickly into the kitchen, pink helmet slipping off his head to one side, held on only by the strap, as he loops around Sarah to hide behind her legs. "What happened?" she asks with a giggle, one she has to quickly stifle when Rachel slides into the room, thick-socked feet slipping on the hardwood.

"He was climbing my bookshelf!" she screams, high pitched, preteen, blood-curdling squeals. "He was _climbing my bookshelf_!"

It wasn't hard to imagine. Ever since he'd seen a documentary on TV about rock climbers, Michael had been trying to scale anything and everything his little feet and fingers could wrap themselves around. That was why he'd chosen to wear the helmet all the time – and he did wear it _all the time_, including in the bath and on to bed – for safety.

Sam maneuvered his way out from Sarah's grasp and backed out of the room, saying only, "Gotta change," with a shit-eating grin on his face, as Rachel continued her rant and Michael clung to poor Sarah's leg. On his way up the stairs he glanced over into the living room to see two little heads, one dark brown, the other light and sandy, peeking up from over the back of the couch, close and still and surprisingly peaceful.

000000000000000000000000000000

The shower felt great. The clothes were wonderful, no starched shirt or too tight tie. A T-shirt and jeans, the way he was meant to be. And the bed, even still made, for the two and half minutes he was able to flop down onto it, was the most comfortable, cozy thing in the world.

But dinner was ready, or so Maya was screaming up the stairs at him, and his family beckoned. So relaxation would, as per usual, have to wait.

Having four children gathered round the table created a different dynamic altogether. At least when there were still only two adults there to command control. On their Winchester family dinner nights – one big happy family, two sets of parents, two sets of kids – they were still mostly on par. But there's something about that juvenile mind, some sort of internal dial that can detect just how much potential there may be for getting away with stuff. Like when the kids out number the adults, two to one.

So imagine Sam's surprise, shock really, when all four children remained calm and relatively quiet throughout their meal. "Did you slip them something in their milk?" he leans over and whispers to Sarah as they finish clearing the table.

She chuckles softly, but doesn't deny it.

"Uncle Sam," he hears, meek voice from behind.

He turns and looks at the eight-year-old boy, still rather small for his age, with legs dangling long and loose over the kitchen chair. "Yeah, buddy?"

"You know what time it is?"

He looks up at the clock and smiles. "Seven."

John mirrors his grin with one of his own, surprisingly similar in its shy awkwardness and deep dimples. "My little brother or sister's here."

Of course, that was why they'd been so quiet and well behaved, they were watching the clock, waiting for their lives to change. "Yeah," he says, "I know."

And just like that, the spell is broken, pandemonium taking over once again, as Michael jumps out of his seat and begins screaming, "Jim or Steve! Jim or Steve! Jimorsteve!"

"Shut up," Rachel lets out with a dramatic eye roll. "God, you're so annoying."

"Jimorsteve!"

"He thinks it's one word," John says softly, barely perceptively over his little brother's screams. "But it's not, it's two."

Maya leans over and shares, in her wonderfully know-it-all voice, "It's two _names_, not two _words_."

"Duh," Rachel huffs. "That's what he meant."

Michael, who had been getting quieter, slowly loosing steam midway through his repetitive shouts, takes in a deep breath and yells louder than anyone his size should be capable of, "Jimorsteve!"

And in one quick move, Sam has him up off the floor, small legs kicking frantically as slurred mumbles fall out from between the huge hand he has cupped over his nephew's mouth.

Seemingly unfazed, because, hey, he lives with this kid everyday, John simply looks up at his frazzled Uncle and says, "I don't think Mommy and Daddy really like either of those names anyway. But they said we get to help pick."

"Bet they'll live to regret that," Rachel mumbles as she sets out pieces of cake for desert.

"Rachel," Sarah chides, glaring from the corner of her eye.

A quick, heavy thud sounds, little boy body falling to a heap on the hardwood, as "Ow! Son of a bitch!" shoots out of Sam's mouth.

Michael hops up and hustles back into his chair, "Cake!" being squealed with delight.

Sarah simply raises her eyebrows at her husband, whose face is contorted in pain. "He bit me," he spits out through gritted teeth.

"Maybe you shouldn't have been manhandling him," she teases while walking over to the little boy and quickly swiping his cake.

He stabs at air with his fork, emitting odd little, "uh, uh, uhn," sounds.

And she looks down at him sternly. "Did you bite Uncle Sam?" she asks.

He makes one more discernable sound before sighing deeply and breathing out, "Yes."

"And is that a nice thing to do?"

"No."

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asks, one brow cocked.

Michael turns in his seat, legs and feet folded up underneath him so that he's really squatting in his chair, and looks Sam in the eyes. "I'm sorry Uncle Sammy," he says, sweet sincerity dripping from his little voice.

How could he not accept that apology?

Sarah returns the cake and takes a seat, Sam joining her, though with a bit of mope in his demeanor. "Don't call me Sammy," he says as he sits, then quickly follows it up with, "Please."

"I like that name," John perks. "Sammy."

Michael, mouth full of chocolate cake, the boys' favorite, because, hey this is a special day, begins, "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," in garbled singsong.

Pointing his fork in the direction of the too amused little boy, he counters with a firm, "Don't."

"Dude, chillax," Maya utters under her breath from the far end of the table.

"Excuse me?" Sam says.

And in a tone rarely matched by anyone but Sam, all daring, self-assured, insolence, she slowly enunciates, "Dude, chill-ax."

"Don't," he begins slowly, same measured manner, as he leans across the table towards her, "call me _dude_. And don't tell me to chillax."

"Chillax!" Michael shouts, bits of icing falling from his lips.

Sam leans back, content with the quasi-remorseful look on his daughter's face. "What does that mean anyway? _Chillax_. That's not a word."

"It's slang, Dad," Rachel answers.

"Yes, Rachel," he says in that _duh_ voice. "Thank you."

"Combination of _chill_ and _relax_," she goes on, coy smile perking the edges of her mouth as she tries to avoid her father's eyes.

"Yes, Rachel, I know," he responds full of annoyance.

"Is it slang though?" Sarah inquires, a humorous lilt to her voice. She hides her smirk as best she can behind her coffee cup when bringing it to her lips, but Sam knows what she's doing. "I mean," she goes on, "_chill_ is slang too, right? So if you mix a slang word with a common colloquial word, like say _relax_, is that still considered slang?"

"You're really doing this," Sam asks in a low whisper. She only shows him an innocently gleaming smile. Teaming up with a bunch of rugrats to annoy her husband, how cruel.

"It's like…double slang," Maya says.

"Psuedoslang," Sarah offers.

Then Rachel steps in again, countering with, "Quasislang."

"Oh, I like it," Sarah claims with enthusiasm.

Sam remains still, leaning back in his chair, arms folded in flesh-colored armor across his chest. He will not be baited. "Can we stop please."

"What, you don't like it?" she asks, innocent as pie.

"Sarah," he warns, no real threat at all attached.

"Dude," she says, bright blue eyes shining, "chillax."

"You're hilarious," he deadpans. But try as he might, he can't keep from letting out a small smile.

"You need to loosen up a little, Sam."

"Yeah, Dad," Maya confirms.

Then Michael too, "Yeah, Dad."

Maya turns on him, glaringly. "He's not _your_ dad."

"Oh, right," he says with a smile and a nod before diving into what's left of the sugary mess on his plate. "Cause my Dad's not here," he slurs through crumbs. "Cause of Jimorsteve! Jimorsteve! Jimorsteve!"

"Would you shut up," Rachel hisses, yet again. Because, yeah, she loves her cousin, but knocking over all her books and trophies earlier was enough to make her despise him for at least the rest of the night.

Sam closes his eyes, the kind of headache he hasn't felt in months, not since getting screwed over by an appellate judge on a case last November, rising into his temples. "Can we please?" he mutters hopelessly.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, John begins to shriek and ball, "Stop fighting!" which only makes Michael scream louder so as to overcome the sound of his brother's wails. Sarah pets John's arm while glaring at Michael, who, upon seeing her fierce look actually quiets down.

But no matter how much she coos and comforts, "We're not fighting. Look, no one's angry," the little boy remains red in the face, puffy eyes refusing to run dry.

The phone rings, and Sam knows he has to get it, knows it's probably Dean and he has to talk to him. But his brain's in a vise and his reactions have stilled as a result. So there's nothing he can do but watch as Rachel jumps up from her seat, long legs closing the distance in two easy strides, and answers the phone.

Other than the excited, "Hello," which was just soft enough to be effectively drown out by John's wails, no other words were spoken. Until the awful, shrill shriek came out her, sounding something like, "It's a girl! It's a girl!"

And again Sam knew he had to grab the phone. Again he knew he had to get up and pry the receiver from his daughter's hand, try to prevent Dean, hell, the whole family, from going deaf. But he still wasn't fast enough, Sarah sweeping in and grabbing the phone to gush ecstatically in Dean's ear.

After a few moments of excited chatter, "Your dad wants to talk to you," she says to John, whose mood shifts from utterly despondent to sheer joy in the drop of a hat.

He races over to take the phone, talks briefly to his father, several, _uh huh_'s, and _yes sir_'s, and finally a _miss you too_, before turning to Michael and asking, "What should we name her?"

"Jimorsteve!" he yells, making Sam cringe and John smile.

"No, Mikey," he says, still holding the phone in a tight grip. "She's a _girl_." As though that were the only reason the conjunctive _Jimorsteve_ wouldn't work.

"Sammy!" he then responds with. "Sammy! Sammy! Sammy!"

Causing Sam to leap up, "No," booming out of him.

Michael stills, looks to his brother and shrugs. John turns back to the phone, tells his father, "Dunno, we'll think about it," before handing the phone over to his distressed uncle. "He wants to talk to you."

"C'mon guys," Sarah says, rounding the kids up and out of the kitchen as Sam moves for the phone. "Let's go _chillax_ in front of the TV."

Sam takes the phone, rests it against his ear for a moment before breathing out an exhausted, "Hey," once they all left, echoes of shrieks and giggles and sobs still resonating through the room.

"_Hey, man,"_ he hears, Dean's voice so full and bright he can almost see that lopsided smile he surely had plastered on his face. _"I have a girl."_

"Yeah, I heard," he says, an enthusiastic grin of his own taking over. "Congratulations."

"_Thanks."_

"She beautiful?"

"_Just like her father."_

"Ha, ha, I'll bet," he snickers. "How's Ava?"

"_Uh, somewhere between exhausted and excited. Thrilled. But high as a kite."_

"That's the way it should be," he laughs, thinking back on Maya's birth, emergency C-section and all.

"_Yeah,"_ he says rather dreamily, just before, _"How're they doing? Driving you crazy?"_

"Nah," he responds, his brother's voice quelling his headache, "They've been great. Little angels." Laughter erupts on the other line and Sam snorts out a chuckle too before that all too familiar, comfortable silence sets in.

"_Yeah, well,"_ Dean says finally, _"I should let you go. Tell the boys I love them, Ava loves them. And we'll see them tomorrow."_

"You got it."

"_Hey, Sam,"_ he throws in quickly before hanging up.

"Yeah?"

"_You sure you guys are okay?"_ he asks in that disbelieving, _things can't possibly go smoothly without me_ way of his.

Sam peeks his head around the corner of the room, sees Michael log rolling across the floor, pink bike helmet kathunking as he goes. John and Maya are sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching TV while dodging the little boy. And Sarah sits upright, braiding Rachel's hair awkwardly as she lays her head in her mother's lap.

"Yeah, man," he says with a smile. "We're all good."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: Damn it! I can't get them out of my head!

* * *

There was something about Dean's daughter.

Maybe it was the fact that she looked so much like Ava, with dark waves and a wide smiling face. Or perhaps it was her eyes, _his_ eyes, peeking out from within the otherwise purely "Ava" countenance.

It could have been her laid back demeanor, never as high strung as John or as wild as Michael, but seemingly calm, cool, and collected, like her father. Or it may have been those moments when she looked at him with a, somehow, almost disdainful glare, one that had no business being a baby's face. One that reminded him so much of his own father it made him ache.

Or maybe it was simply the fact that for as long as Dean Winchester has been alive he's been all about the ladies.

Whatever the reason, there was no doubt about it, Samantha May Winchester had her daddy completely and totally whipped.

Not that that came as much of a surprise to anyone.

Back when Rachel was born he was much the same way. Even more protective than usual, once actually going so far as to hold his hands out beneath her, ready to catch, even as she was folded neatly into Sam's arms.

"Dude, stop," he had protested. "She's my daughter, I'm not gonna drop her."

And of course Dean knew that was true. Because Sam had always been careful of the women in his life, cautious and gentle. And even if he was the clumsy bumbling idiot that Dean sometimes remembered him to be – an awkward adolescence to blame for an everlasting image – he could practically palm the little girl with his huge gorilla hand. He'd actually have to _work_ to drop her.

But she was their first baby. And she was the only girl Dean had ever known from birth. So being that she was small and delicate, and female, he made it a point to be watchful.

When Maya was born, nearly four years later, they all thought they'd be ready, raising a baby like riding a bike. But she was different. Hardier from the get go, never wanting to be handled for too long, constantly fussy. She was Sam's kid for sure. And maybe it was that fact, that sort of odd link between them, the joked about personality quirk, that was the reason the only person she ever allowed to coddle and cuddle her for more than five minutes at a time, was her dad.

By the time John came, just a few short months later, baby wrangling was old hat, even for the new parents. And to be fair, Ava and Dean fell into their mommy and daddy roles without a hitch. Regardless of the amount of practice they'd received with the girls, they simply seemed made for parenthood.

So there was the fact that they'd been mellowed by experience, the realization that they could actually do the right thing, at least occasionally, without really trying. That helped them to be more laid back in raising the boys.

Then there'd also been the fact that they were _boys_. Even though John was emotional, had been since birth, and sometimes needed extra attention. And Michael, while seemingly every bit the rambunctious boys-will-be-boys kind of kid on the outside, also yearned to snuggle in his mom's lap, hide his all too often chocolate smeared face in his dad's shoulder. Despite all of that, there was still the underlying feeling that they were hardier, the sense that they were more independent.

This was different. This, this…girl, that was truly Dean's. This small and delicate thing that fluttered her long lashes at him before looking up, with his eyes, and making meek baby gurgles. This sweet and soft and supple creature that fit so well in the crook of his arm, just where John would lay before fussing, face twisting with hot tears, and Michael would wriggle and pull and roll, always needing to move. Samantha lay still, close and contented.

It was true, Dean had always been a sucker for women. But never more so than now.

"Samantha?" he asks, trying to sound affronted, failing miserably whilst smiling and rocking his new niece. "You have two boys and somehow decide to name your _daughter_ after me?"

"It was John's idea. He liked the name Sammy," Dean responds, forehead crinkled with concern as he watches Sam maneuver the baby into a different position.

"Dude," he says, catching the worried look, "I'm not gonna drop her."

"You sure about that?" he asks, rising and moving toward the pair. "You're kind of out of practice."

Sam throws one hand up to stop his brother, the other spread along his namesake's back, plastering her tiny form to his chest. "Don't bogart the baby," he says with a lilt. "She's mine too." And he settles back into the steady side to side rocking rhythm, showing just how _not_ out of practice really he is.

Dean stands motionless, arms still outstretched, waiting to receive back his daughter, face confounded by the fact that he's not being allowed. But that's what you get when you wait two weeks before bringing a new baby over to her aunt and uncle's.

It seems like it's been hours since he's even been allowed to touch her, what with the kids all aching for a turn. Rachel, first in line because, as she pointed out, she's oldest, quickly turned her back on everyone else, cooing privately to her newest cousin, assuring her in hushed, sweet tones that she would always provide a safe haven for her when the boys got to be too much.

And Maya, who didn't quite know what to do with a baby, sitting awkwardly beside Sarah as her mother talked her through the basics of baby handling. As usual, she tried for an air of nonchalance, despite the evident terror in her eyes.

Michael screamed that he was next, just as he did every time Samantha had been held by anyone over the last two weeks. Five a.m., he's up and ready to burp her after her feeding. Eight thirty, he's demanding to kiss her goodnight before heading to bed. Every moment in between, he's readying himself to get at her again. Thank God she slept so much, spent hours away from him, else he wouldn't have any time to bounce of the walls in his typical ADHD fashion.

And naturally, if everyone else was given a turn, John had to have one too, the deprivation of which would only set him to weeping. And if there was one thing Dean and Ava had learned about their daughter in the few short weeks they'd known her, it was that she seemed incapable of letting her brother cry alone. No one wanted to have to deal with that.

So, yeah, maybe he was going through a bit of baby withdrawl, so sue him.

He drops his arms to his sides, clearly dejected and doesn't even notice that Ava and Sarah have entered the room until his wife speaks, letting her chin rest on his shoulder as she does so. "He never lets go of her for long," she says, looking over at Sam. "In fact, if he had the ability to breastfeed, I doubt he'd ever let her go."

The two brothers share a quick _eww_ look, just obvious enough to make the ladies snigger.

"Samantha May," Sarah says dreamily as she moves to her husband's side. "Where'd May come from?" she asks, reaching out and taking hold of one chubby little baby foot, smiling with wide eyes as she looks down at the calm little girl. Before they can answer her previous question she murmurs, almost to herself, "So much like Rachel."

Sam had been thinking it too, how much she reminded him of his own baby, so sweet and serene. But of course Rachel wasn't a baby anymore, was a young woman really, as he'd painfully noticed earlier when watching the easy sway of her hips, the careful way she had of conforming Samantha to her body as she rocked her. Seeing his own little girl move so naturally with a baby in her arms made him want to weep, and it caused an odd sort of twinge beneath his sternum that he'd rather not acknowledge. So instead of commenting and running the risk of sharing a dreamy, _our baby's all grown up _type of glance with Sarah, he says simply, "Yeah, is that like a short version of Mary, for mom?"

"Nope," Dean says, taking hold of Ava's arms and wrapping them tighter around himself.

"I do like that though," she comments from behind. "We should totally tell people that's why."

Sam transitions the baby once more when she lets out a small gurgle, positioning her so he can see her face, thin alabaster skin covering tiny blue veins, small bowed mouth, so obviously Ava, long think lashes, a Dean trademark trait he'd been kind enough to bestow on all his children. "What does it mean then?" he asks without looking up.

"Do the math, Sammy," Dean responds, coy smirk lacing the words.

It wasn't hard to figure that one out. Born in February… "You named your daughter after the month you conceived her?" he asks, astonishment lighting his features. "Gross."

"Hey," Dean defends, "those were good times." He chuckles just as Samantha begins to squirm, preparing to wail.

"I didn't need to know that," Sam says, handing the baby over into Ava's waiting arms. "I don't _want_ to know that." He lets out an exaggerated shudder, yielding another laugh from his brother.

"Oh please," Ava scoffs while sitting and undoing her blouse, preparing to feed. "You didn't seem so disgusted by the idea of sex with me back in Vermont." Then, looking up and into the dumbfounded, silent faces of the others in the room, "Oh God, never mind. Hormones make me stupid."

"Vermont?" Dean tries, but is quickly drown out by his brother's too awkward _ha, ha_'s.

"What happened in Vermont?" Sarah asks slyly, already catching on. After all, it had never been a secret that Sam and Ava had been _involved_ before they were. It was just the level of that involvement that had never really been relayed.

Ava's eyes dance wildly around the room as she holds the baby close, humming to herself, pretending to be enthralled in her breast-feeding bonding time. Sam continues to smile, an odd _shit's gonna hit the fan_ kind of grimace, as he averts his wife's coy glare. And Dean slowly turns red, jaw clicking and grinding as he works to control himself.

"Sam?" Sarah questions, the corner of her mouth rising into a half smile, evidence of her amusement. Because, damn it the guy was just too cute when embarrassed and flustered like this, even after all these years.

"It was one time," he answered quietly, eyes directed at the floor beneath his feet. "Before we were together. Obviously." The last word he mumbles, fully aware that it's not even necessary, surely she knows he would never cheat on her.

"Well," Ava drawls, "One night, but not exactly one time." Sam winces visibly, not even aware of the questioning glance, the amused raised eyebrow on his wife's face.

"Excuse me?" Dean utters softly, barely contained fury flowing through him.

Sam looks up at his brother, answers quickly. "It was before you two were together too. I mean, before you even met, I think."

"Actually, it was the night we met," Ava says with a lilt, apparently having a bit of fun at the boys' expense.

"Come again?" he asks, turning his attention to his wife who's now transitioning their baby into burping mode.

"That's what _she_ said," Sarah murmurs, glancing quickly at Ava, causing both to break into unsteady cackles.

Both the boys gape openly at them – _crazy women_ – before locking eyes with one another. A fraction of a second goes by before Dean lunges forward, "I'm gonna kill you," streaming from his lips.

Sarah tries to jump out of the way, but can't, Sam grabbing her arm and moving her in between. Because Dean would never hurt his sister-in-law, hell of a shield. And this only makes Ava laugh harder, to the point of being nearly unable to breathe. Which, naturally, greatly disturbs Samantha, as her mother becomes incapable of patting her back.

It's a clever out, Dean realizes. Unable to get to his bastard of a brother – what kind of man hides behind his wife anyway? – he turns around and collects his daughter, leaving Ava to collapse in on herself with huge guffaws. "See what you've done!" he shouts, moving the baby to his shoulder where he carefully rubs soft circles on her back, nuzzling her downy hair with his nose as he whispers, "It's okay, baby."

"You say that now," Sarah chimes in, pulling away from Sam's grip, "but she's definitely gonna need therapy later."

In a much calmer voice – because, hey, this kid just has that effect on her dad – Dean says, "Yeah, well, he's paying those bills."

Still blushing, still mortified and tense from fear, Sam tries to explain once more that, "It was a long time ago. Before…I mean…it doesn't mean anything…didn't."

And finally Sarah works to quell her husband's anxieties, her own laughter slowing down, "We know, honey. It was a long time ago."

"Yeah, it was." His shoulders droop a bit, first sign of relief. Because Ava's regaining control herself, and Sarah's not actually upset, not that she has any reason to be. And Dean, well, Dean seems rather distracted at least.

"I do have one question though," his wife starts, and he knows this won't be good, not with that wispy quality to her voice. "Who's the better _lover_?"

"That's not funny," he replies, noticing Dean's death glare from over the top of Samantha's tiny head.

"Seriously though," she says through barely controlled giggles, "we had _met_ by then. How am I supposed to tell our children that it was love at first sight if you knocked boots with their Auntie Ava so soon after?"

"Right now, I'm not so sure I love you at all," he replies, sad puppy dog eyes causing her to _awww_ internally before apologizing with a kiss.

"You know what this means, Sammy?" Dean interrupts, steadily bounce-rocking the little girl. "Now I get a whack at Sarah."

"Hey," Ava shoots out, feigning hurt.

Sarah steps away from Sam's side, moves nearer Dean. "No, no, he's right. Fair's fair."

"Again, not funny," he says, pulling her back over to him.

"It's a little funny," Dean mumbles, smiling for the first time since this _discussion_ began. "Whore."

"Hey, now," Sam starts, moving cautiously toward his brother. "There's a baby in the room." He moves around behind Dean to look at his niece's scrunched up face, chances being so close, assuming that Dean won't lunge at him again with the kid in his arms.

"She should know what her uncle really is," he says, tossing a glare over his shoulder.

Sam rolls his eyes and runs his thumb along the baby's cheek, pleased that all the laughter and talk has ceased, hopeful that this awful reminiscing can be forgotten.

Dean pats his daughter's back once more, knowing full well what it'll do. Slimy breast milk spills out her mouth, pooling in Sam's palm that he had moved to cup her face. "Yeah," he whispers in her ear, "that's my girl."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: This one has a bit more angst than chapters previous.

* * *

"I wouldn't worry about it," she says with a flip of the wrist. "I went through the same thing when I was her age. Well," she drawls out, continuing on in the same breath, "I went through the whole rebel by wearing all black, not washing your hair, and caking your eyes with heavy liner. Not so much with the whole finding out your family's into ghost hunting and demonic wartime assistance, or whatever." She pauses briefly, takes in the stares from those around her before saying, a bit slower, "But I really wouldn't worry about the way she's dressing."

Sam gazes, dumfounded, at his sister-in-law. Part of him figures she's right, no need to worry. The other part's fairly well decided she's just plain nuts, no real surprise there, and has absolutely no idea what she's talking about. Because, let's be honest, this is his kid, not hers. It's his daughter who suddenly decided to shut down right in front of them, stay in her room, barely utter a word to anyone, least of all him and Sarah. And while her _new look_, that _I'm so misunderstood, you just couldn't possibly get me_, Gothtastic ridiculousness that kids had been doing since he was her age, since even before, was rather disconcerting, it was not what really worried him.

She was thirteen, a teenager, no longer his little girl. And she was the oldest of all the Winchester kids, making her, to Sam and Sarah, as well as to Dean and Ava, the first baby, in a way the most memorable baby.

But to her she was always the girl who _never_ got to be the baby, because for as long as she could remember, there'd been babies there for her to look after, guard and protect, teach and train. And Sam knew this, never before feeling so much for his brother's constant burden of being the eldest until watching it take its toll on his own child.

But that was different of course. Rachel had to perform the necessary tasks of big sister, which truthfully she was to the boys and Samantha as well, but she never had to worry about them getting into trouble when no adult was around for days, never had to worry about keeping them fed and clothed and cared for while her parents were…gone. Never had to stay up late, shotgun in hand, to stand guard against any sort of supernatural entity intent on pain, murder, devouring her younger sibling for a midnight snack.

No, of course she would never have had to do that. As far as she knew those sorts of things didn't even exist.

There'd been times over the past thirteen years, when they wondered if it was a good idea to keep the truth from their children, wondered if it were even possible. There were times when an old friend would call, needing help, needing advice, needing the old Sam and Dean back. And they would on occasion oblige, because blood is thicker than water, and so many people from their past life had bled buckets for them.

There were times when an odd happening would catch Dean's eye, an article in the paper, talk and rumors abounding round town. And he would get that itch all over again, that aching desire to hit the open road, search for an evil culprit, track it, kill it. Hunt.

And there were, even after all those years, even after severing the bond that linked them to that yellow-eyed son of a bitch, dreams, nightmares, visions. For both Sam and Ava. There were restless nights, waking knotted up in the bed sheets, cold sweat plastering hair to their faces.

There were late night infomercials and constant trips to the kids' rooms, to the bathroom, to the kitchen for a drink of water, to anywhere they could think to go but bed. There were, and always would be, nights when sleep was simply not an option.

Well, kids aren't stupid. They see things, hear things, know things. They'd asked questions when their daddies left town for seemingly no reason, or when they returned beat to hell, bruised knuckles and callused fingers grasping their tiny bodies, holding on like they might never let go. And they'd listen to their mothers' explanations, their far-fetched excuses, and smile and nod, returning to their childish worlds, filing away all the inequities for later exploration.

So there had been close calls in the past. Like when John was four and he found Dean's .22 in the duffel under the bed. It was loaded, the safety off, just like always when he took it on the road, on a hunt. But after returning he was too tired to think, too tired to remember that it was sitting like that, on top of everything else in the bag for easy access, so he simply kicked the duffel under the bed, deciding he'd unpack later.

His eyes had been closed barely a moment it seemed when John, whom he hadn't even heard come in, woke him with, "Bang, bang, Daddy," the loaded gun clenched in his chubby baby fingers. Dean nearly shit a brick, grabbing the gun, grabbing his son, screaming and sobbing even as Ava flew into the room in a panic. From then on, no hunting equipment was allowed inside their house, except on certain necessary occasions.

From then on, whenever John sensed trouble, fear, disappointment, or anger, he'd break into screams and sobs that rivaled his father's.

And there'd been the time Jo came to visit, just after Ellen's death, just after the funeral they were unable to attend due to it coinciding with Michael's six-month birthday. She said she just felt the need to see some friendly faces, look into the eyes of a couple of people who actually knew her mother, might actually mourn her passing, instead of all those she'd been around the past few weeks who were simply trying to weasel information out of her by way of playing nice. Because Ellen knew a lot, about every hunter who ever happened into her establishment. She knew more about how their world worked than just about anyone, had a file cabinet full of offenses and dirty little secrets and fucked up hunts from all those she met, buried deep in the back of her head.

And everyone wanted a piece of that.

"I mean, who cares that Nate Barker once made an ashtray out of a hellhound paw? Or that Simon…whatever his name is kept a finger from a golem?" she said while relaying her distaste.

"He reanimated it with that finger," Sam said simply, swishing his coffee around in front of him.

"Yeah, well, he's dead now anyway. So's Barker. So are half the people everyone's talking about now."

Dean looked over, brows crinkling with interest. "Like who?"

"Marvin Tucker, Big Abe, that guy Charlie."

"Charlie who, Charlie Horse?" She nodded through the steam of her coffee. "Damn, Charlie Horse is dead," he said, shaking his head.

Sam mumbled something about _stupid name_ before Jo let out, casual as can be, "Ripped limb from limb. Werewolf."

And it was only then that they noticed, that Jo noticed actually, and then indicated with a slight nod, the little girl eavesdropping from the stairs.

Sam put her to bed, shrugged off her questions about werewolves, did all he could not to say _they don't exist_, because he really didn't want to be the kind of parent who outright lied to his children. He tried to ignore the ache that rose when she said with all the sincerity a six-year-old could muster, "You know a lot people who're dead, Dad."

He tried to ignore the fact that she'd heard anything at all. Because surely she wouldn't really think it was real. Surely she wouldn't even remember it all the following week. She was a kid after all.

But she did remember. Seven years later, two weeks ago, when a close call became the unavoidable moment, she remembered the sad blond lady who sat in her kitchen talking about werewolves and demons and friends lost to the cause.

And there was no denying this one.

Nearly everything from their past life had sat sprawled in front of her long, lanky legs. Every pseudo militaristic manual. Every ceremonial dagger and old rusted machete. Every too big bag of half-used salt and too full box of extra lighters. Every odd charm and old medicine bag and bizarre rambling story collected through the years.

Every item from that previous life, before marriage and kids, lawn mowing and mortgages, she found that night, stumbled across all because they'd been too careless to keep her from doing so. Just like John with the gun, stashing it under the bed, assuming, somehow convincing himself, there's no way a kid would go looking there. Well, if you can misjudge a four-year-old, certainly you can misjudge a thirteen-year-old.

It wasn't even as though she'd been snooping around, intent on finding something that obviously no one want to be found. It wasn't like that at all. She had only been looking for that ridiculous stuffed duck that little Sammy loved so much, the one that Dean, for whatever reason, couldn't stand to look at and always tried to get rid of, stashing it behind the couch or tossing it down the laundry shoot, each time hoping the baby would forget about it entirely.

But she never did forget, and she always yearned for it back. And Rachel knew this, knew that the quiet rasping cry she had been letting out for the last five minutes, quelled not even by Sam's large rocking hands, which nearly always did the trick, was the duck cry. Because she knew her cousin, knew all her cousins as well as her own sibling. She knew what they wanted or needed often times even before they did, always. She didn't know how she knew, she just _knew_.

And quite frankly both her parents and Samantha's parents seemed too preoccupied to care, each one frazzled and on edge like she'd never seen them before. Because on that night Sammy turned six-months-old. And while she had no idea the absolute significance of that event, she did know it meant something. Because amid all the other memories filed away inside her head rested the ones of tense family gatherings past: Maya's six-month birthday, John's close on its heels, later and bit less hazy was Michael's.

But as had been the case all her life, whenever she'd bring up such odd occasions, her questions were merely sloughed off and ignored.

It was their fault for sure, Sam and Sarah and Dean and Ava. They'd taken for granted what it was like to have a little abiding child in their midst. They hadn't thought about how to keep secrets from a near adult, a teenager who simply knew better.

And on that night they were so caught up in their own world, protecting Samantha and Ava, watching out for themselves, keeping the kids quiet and oblivious, that they didn't even notice when Rachel disappeared, didn't think anything of her being in the house unsupervised. Because the ground rules had been put in place, stay inside, keep out of the nursery.

They never thought that she might, while looking for the one thing she knew her cousin needed most, stumble upon the one thing that they had never wanted her to see. So no one had bothered cleaning up the mess, the piles of papers and stacks of journals, the just cleaned, glimmering guns laid out on the desk.

Since the incident with John some four years before, all the kids had been taught not to enter their parents' rooms without permission. But she was on a mission, and she knew that the last time Ducky had disappeared Ava found him buried at the bottom of their closet.

So she found it all, let her fingers dance over the weapons with an amazed hesitancy, perused the journals filled with wild ramblings of crazy men: her uncle, father, grandfather. She took note of the pages they'd been open to, tales of fire and electrical storms and motherless babies being born for a purpose.

She studied the ancient drawings inside old dusty books, about demons lurking as shadows, baptizing babies with blood, bending fire to their will. And she read the story of her grandmother's death, the one she'd never been told before, always getting instead a shrug of the shoulders, an, "It was a long time ago, Rache," whenever the subject came up.

She read the account in her grandfather's tight, pained scrawl. And she _knew_.

It was close to an hour before they found her, frantic when she didn't answer their calls. Dean stopped short in the doorway, others ramming into his frozen body as they followed, each with equally terrified expressions on their faces.

There was a moment in there when no one spoke, no one even seemed to breathe, save the still whimpering baby held tight in Sam's arms. Rachel looked to her cousin and with stiff resolve, a face as hard as stone, said simply, "She wants her duck," before turning back to the reading in front of her.

Dean moved over to the desk and pulled the ratty stuffed animal from the back of a drawer, put it in his baby's gleeful little fist, and looked up at Sam with guilty eyes. And whatever was said with that look, Sam understood, nodding slightly before backing out the door with Dean's daughter in his hands. Leaving his daughter in Dean's.

Ava touched Sarah lightly on the shoulder, broke her from the trance she seemed to have fallen into, and guided her back as well, further into the hallway. She leaned into her from behind, resting her chin in the crook of her neck, saying nothing, only holding on as Sarah held her breath, tried to figure out a way to get her mind to catch up with the changes the night was bringing.

From outside the room they could hear everything, whether they wanted to or not. They heard Dean say, "I'm sorry, Rache," in short clipped words. The gruff tone continued with, "This is important. We can't talk about this now. In the morning, when the sun comes up, whatever questions you have…"

"It's true," she said, and they all knew it wasn't a question.

They didn't see Dean nod, didn't see the pained expression on his face as he looked down and realized that the book in her lap was his father's journal, that the entry she was reading was about his mother's death. They only heard, after a long moment and a deep breath, "This is your history too. You want to know it, go ahead. You should know. You're old enough now. But…"

"I won't tell them," she whispered. "They're just kids, I won't tell them."

"I'll leave you alone then," he said softly, turning to go. No one looked at each other out in the hall, Ava and Sarah gazed at the same wall while Sam's eyes simply tracked the top of the baby's head as Dean pulled her away, folded her into his needy arms.

No one looked at each other the rest of the night.

She didn't have too many questions afterward, the following morning, the following weeks. If anything did come up she went to Dean, got him alone before whispering about the past, his past, her dad's. But they were usually little things, easily answered, none of the tough stuff everyone expected.

She wanted to know if vampires were real, ghosts and bogeymen and all the other talked about creatures that plagued children's nightmares. She wanted to know, if they were real, how to protect yourself against them, and more importantly, how to protect others.

"She's looking out for the kids," Dean explained in one of several, _catch me up on Rachel_ conversations between him and Sam. "Just wants to keep them safe."

"That's not her job," Sam spat, and Dean merely nodded, knowing full well that it's always the job of the eldest to guard against potential dangers, be they falling off the bed or being bled dry by a vamp. But Sam never did understand how simply inherent that role was, so there was no use in trying to explain it.

Now it was up to him, as the only one in the family who had any idea what she might need right now, to answer all her questions, put her fears at ease. To train her as she'd requested. To teach her how to shoot a gun.

It wasn't until Sam said, "Uh-uh, no way," that she took on the semblance of walking death, figuring maybe if she dove far enough into this world of ghosts and demons and monsters, that they'd see she wasn't gonna let it go, or let them ignore it.

So here they sit now, two sets of harried parents, discussing for the first time how to deal with raising a teenager, someone who now has a mind of her own, who would only garner a greater taste for rebellion as the years wore on. And who, at her core, only really wanted what's best for her family.

"I think we should let her do it," Sarah says suddenly, her head slowly nodding.

Sam, knowing precisely what she means, counters quickly with a stern, "No."

"She's not stupid, Sam," Dean tries. "She's old enough to know we can't protect her from everything. And now, whether you like it or not, she knows there's even more out there that we won't always be able to protect her from."

"I said no. She's my daughter and I said no."

Sarah turns to him sharply, "She's my daughter too, and I say yes."

He lets his head fall into his hands, mumbles into them. "I don't want our kids growing up like we did. I don't want them to be trained…warriors."

"They won't," Dean says, voice determined. He pats his brother on the back. "She's not a little kid anymore. She can handle this. And it won't be like us, like Dad was with us."

"She just wants to feel…useful," Ava chimes in. "Ready and able, just in case. That's why I asked to be taught, trained. Sarah too."

"And you thought that was a good idea at the time," Sarah adds.

"Yeah, well, at the time you were adults, full grown, capable adults."

"Oh, please," Ava exclaims. "I was a wreck and a half! All jittery about 'is this a good idea or a bad idea? Will I end up using this gun against people the demon wants me to kill, or will I have to use it against _something else_? Because even seeing a _something else_…God.'" She takes a breath and looks over at Sam, features bright but serious. "That kid is about a hundred times more capable than I'll ever be. Definitely more than I was then."

She holds the gaze for a long moment, keeping her eyes on his, communicating in that way that only they ever could. Beyond words. Entirely separate from the intense sibling bond he had with Dean, or the _I know you so well, I know just what you're thinking_ link he shared with Sarah. Theirs was built on something else, something horrible and wonderful. It came from a connection they were destined to have, and one forged by surviving what they were meant to be.

"Okay," he gives in. "You can teach her to shoot. You can show her the basics. But that's it," he says in a deep and final tone, glare tearing into Dean.

Then he gets up and heads back inside, trudges through the dark kitchen, shuffles up the steps, and knocks lightly on Rachel's door before turning the knob.

"You know you're supposed to wait 'til someone invites you in," she says snottily as he enters the room.

"I knocked," he shrugs.

"Yeah, well." She sits up on her bed, pulls her long legs up underneath her as Sam takes a seat by her side, his weight on the mattress creating a strong enough dip to pull her closer to him.

"Your uncle's going to give you some lessons," he says carefully, testing the waters. "Just a few. Just some simple stuff."

"Okay," she drawls out, cautious tone matching her father's.

"I don't want the other kids to know about it, not right now anyway."

"Yeah, totally."

"And it can't interfere with anything. School, piano…just…kid stuff. Friends, anything. Understand?" he asks, looking at her for the first time. She nods and he raises his eyebrows, a cue for more confirmation.

"I understand."

He reaches his arm around her, tangles his fingers up in her hair, and gives a quick small tug. "And no more of this Goth crap," he says with a smirk. "Wash your hair, and your face. And put on something…pink."

"Dad, please," she scoffs as he pulls her in to land a kiss on top of her head.

He gets up to leave, makes it as far as the door before she stops him, saying, "Dad?"

And when he turns it takes all his strength to remain standing, because all at once he sees in her something he never had before, and it makes his knees go weak. The strong tilt of her chin, the stoic resolve in her eyes. The cold fear prickling beneath her hazel irises.

He sees himself.

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"Were you really expecting it to come back? For Sammy? Or for any of us? You know," she says, face falling, "like it did for you."

He takes a deep breath and responds, the first real truth he thinks he's ever told his children, maybe anyone, "I expect it everyday."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: Christmas time disfunction with the Winchesters.

* * *

It was tradition. That's all there is to it. Sam settled down first, settled in, with a house and a wife and a couple of kids. Despite being the younger brother, Sam was the adult, the grown up. And everyone knows that being settled and grown means you have to play host at family gatherings. That's just the way it is.

Every Christmas for the past fifteen years the family, long before there were five kids to round it out, had gathered over at Sam and Sarah's. Even though the Winchesters never really celebrated Christmas. And Sarah was half Jewish (the other half simply not religious).

It was tradition.

And what had started, mostly at Ava's insistence, because really she was nothing if not a small and excitable child around the holidays, as a quaint little get together, a reason to sit around and get drunk off nasty ass drinks like egg nog and hot toddies, had now become much more. Now there was a tree. And dozens upon dozens of neatly wrapped presents beneath it. And perfectly cut gingerbread men, courtesy of Sarah and Rachel, two perfectionist peas in a pod. And sloppily decorated, heavily icing laden sugar cookies, in shapes that occasionally resembled a reindeer or a candy cane, all the work of John and Michael, with a bit of help from their mother since neither had been allowed around the oven after Michael put his goldfish, bowl and all, in it to give him a sauna. The smell remained for days.

Christmas is, after all, in this day and age, a time for children. And since the Winchesters had never been afforded the opportunity to _be_ children, to sit on Santa's lap or bake cookies with their mom, or even have a tree, complete with tacky colored lights and homemade ornaments, they made damn sure they'd make up for that by giving it all to their kids.

So long as Maya drops the attitude. And Michael stops pilfering cookies after being told he's had enough. And John stops insisting that they all sing Christmas carols, bursting into tears the minute his father smirks and says _no way in hell_.

And really, if Rachel's Christmas Nazi routine goes any further, the holiday may get canceled all together. Forever.

"What did you do to her?" the teen exclaims, first words of greeting as Dean and Ava arrive with the kids.

Hugs go round as everyone's welcomed in – you'd think they hadn't seen each other in months at least, though it's been merely days – and parcels are passed into waiting arms, Sam taking gifts into the living room before heading outside to help Dean in with more. Sarah accepts platters of food from the boys, noticing right away the torn saran wrap and large empty stop on the plate of cookies from Michael. And Rachel, mouth still agape, eyes wide with a horrified shock they hadn't known in hours – since Maya hung tinsel in clumps instead of evenly spreading it like a _normal_ human being would do – accepted the baby from Ava's heavy arms.

"What do you mean?" she asks as she hands Samantha off.

"She's dressed like a pumpkin!"

"That's because she is one," John says simply, preparing to tote coats and scarves, gloves and mittens, upstairs.

Rachel scurries into the kitchen, hot on the heels of her mother and aunt, and says, with as much grave audacity as any Winchester could muster, "This doesn't fit the set theme."

Ava laughs lightly as she begins to rummage around the kitchen, foraging for the necessary equipment to prepare her part of the meal. "The set theme?"

"Christmas," she lets out in near squeal, one hand on hip, the other still balancing the baby carrier.

"Well, the boys like the pumpkin."

"Yes, but it's Christmas."

"I know but – "

"It. Is. Christmas," she bites out through clenched teeth.

And Sarah knows exactly where this is going, because they've been there so many times already, today, yesterday, hell since Thanksgiving when Rache informed her that they were getting up at five the following morning to shop. "Rachel, leave it alone," she says sternly, already more than fed up with little miss perfect.

But that didn't work two weeks ago when she said to her father, "I don't care if you do fall off the roof, you'll recover. Christmas won't if Rudolph's crooked." Or last week when she nearly sucker punched a woman at the grocery store over the last bottle of vanilla. Or yesterday when, God help them all, she revealed personalized Santa hats for the entire family to wear. Bedazzled, mind you.

So why in the world Sarah would have thought that would work… "Never mind, I'll take care of it," she says as she leaves the room, baby and all, in a huff.

Ava gives her sister-in-law a look of absolute _seriously?_ before returning to her search for the garlic press.

"I don't know what's gotten into her lately," Sarah says with a sigh. "I mean, one minute she's this moody, morose teenager. And just as soon as I start to get used to that, she walks downstairs with no eyeliner and a list of things that need to be done for _Christmas_. Stupid fucking holiday."

"Woah, easy there," Ava snickers.

"She's driving me insane."

"Yeah, I can see that," she remarks, eyeing the head of lettuce Sarah's laying a meat cleaver to.

She takes a deep breath and almost lets loose with a chortle of her own when a crashing, screaming, banging, crying _noise_ breaks out in the other room. Both women go to investigate and find Michael in tears, _Michael_ for a change, Maya standing over broken shards of hand blown Santa – the same one she said was giving her the evil eye and wouldn't make it through the night, surprise, surprise, if he kept it up – and Rachel looming, eyes wide and fiery, over them all. On her hip little Samantha beats a rhythm out with her chubby hands, steadily thumping her older cousin on the arms, shoulder, neck. But she doesn't seem to notice, too busy staring her sister down.

"She killed my pumpkin," Michael cries, _screams_. "She killed my pumpkin!"

"Oh, no, honey, it's fine," Ava coos as she scoops her boy into her arms. Looking over at the baby she can see that Rachel changed her, a red and white striped jumper that Ava didn't even remember her owning riding up over her diaper. "She just changed clothes is all," she tries with a hopeful smile.

But to no avail. "I want my pumpkin!"

Seemingly oblivious to Michael's turmoil over his sister's wardrobe, Rachel and Maya continue their stare down, each standing tall and steady on either side of the room, as one boy cowers in the corner, the other wailing in his mother's arms. Until Sam and Dean enter, making the mistake of stopping in the doorway and asking, "What's going on?" That's when all hell breaks loose.

"Pumpkin! Pumpkin! Pumpkin," reverberating through the room as Michael flings himself at his father, causing Dean to stumble into his brother, both then sending presents falling to the floor, one of which _cha-chinks_ like broken glass.

"Son of a – " from Dean's mouth, an innate response to being thrown off one's feet, is enough to send John into fits of tears as well, prompting him to run for his mother, though blindly, fear and angst and water logged eyes preventing him from seeing clearly. In fact the only one who can see what's coming, what with Dean and Ava being preoccupied with their son, Sam busy collecting the felled gifts as best he can, and Rachel looking at nothing but her sister's steady eyes, is Sarah.

But she's too far away to react in time, lunging forward as though she might be able to catch them as John crashes into Maya, sending them both down, hard, right on top of the shards of broken Santa.

And it's been a long time since she, or anyone, has heard Maya cry, but even over all the other noise, the carols from the radio and the obnoxious little automatronic ornaments, and the resounding shrieks already present, now even louder, Sarah can hear, _feel_, the pain of her youngest.

Ava scoops John up and off his cousin, quickly checks him over and determines he's fine, Maya having broken his fall, and hands him off to no one in particular as she moves to gather Maya in her arms. And of course, in classic mother-speed, Sarah is at her side as well, checking for injuries on her child just as Ava had naturally done for hers.

The good news is, the boys stopped crying almost immediately, shocked into silence by a thing they hadn't witnessed, well, ever. Because they weren't there three years ago when Maya jumped from a tree and broke her arm. And that was the last time she had cried.

"What the hell?" Dean booms, setting Michael down and pulling John over next to him, just to keep them out of the way. "She alright?"

Ava nods to him, her hand instinctively twining through Sarah's hair, trying to calm her as she shakily coos to her daughter. Sam kneels down to take a look, sees Sarah's hand come up bloody, and feels his heart leap into his throat. Because blood's never a good thing, but in his experience it's so often been _way_ worse than that.

"C'mere baby," he says, voice soft and steady. And he reminds himself as he lifts her into his lap that it's just a little glass, nothing serious, nothing like what he and Dean might have seen at her age.

She wraps her arms around his neck and leaks hot tears onto his shoulder. And snot too, he imagines. And he lets his fingertips, sadly adept as they are for finding even the tiniest of injuries, too much practice over the years, trace around her skin. And sure enough, he finds some shards poking out, high up on her thigh underneath her dress.

He sighs deeply, eyes connecting with Sarah's in silent communication. _She's all right, don't worry._ Sarah leans forward to pry her daughter away so she might lead her upstairs for a quick clean up, but Maya's hold is strong, she's not letting her dad go. So Sam swings one arm around her back as his other scoops underneath her as best he can without touching any wounds, and he stands awkwardly with a groan. Eight-year-olds aren't that heavy, but she's as big as he was at that age, and that's exactly what he tells himself as he nearly topples over. It's _not _just that he's getting old.

"I'll take care of it," he says as he traipses up the steps with his baby in his arms.

No one notices Rachel, standing in the exact same spot as before, Samantha still balanced and happy on one hip. No one sees the look of absolute horror on her face as she remains motionless, watching others clean up the mess. Ava with the broom and dustpan. Dean enlisting the help of the boys in placing the scattered gifts by the tree, avoiding the glass of course. Sarah wiping up tiny rivulets of blood from the wood floor.

As quickly as it began, it seemed to have ended. Ava and Sarah returning to the kitchen to finish up dinner, Michael following behind in full on stealth mode, eager to filch a cookie off the counter. John, still seeming a bit freaked, demanded, by means of a trembling lipped pout that Dean stay with him and watch TV. And still Rachel stands.

It's not until the music is off, television on, and Dean and his son are both seated on the couch, that she moves, turning awkwardly toward her uncle and saying, "I'm sorry."

He looks up at her and cocks his head, a question in itself. But instead of inquiring as to what she's sorry for, he asks, "What happened to my pumpkin?" and is met with a quick crumbling of her face.

"I'm sorry," she says again, voice cracking.

He pats the cushion next to him, invites her to sit. And of course, she does, repositioning the baby on her lap and laying her own head on her uncle's shoulder. He throws his arm around her and strokes her hair absently as he says, "Michael likes the costume. Tried telling him Halloween's over, but he kept calling her his pumpkin and it was just so damn cute." He watches the TV as he speaks, they all do, even Sammy who smiles wide when George Bailey enters. "She'll grow out of it soon. That's all. Babies grow up fast."

Rachel nods her assent, sniffling. "I know."

"It sucks, huh?" he asks simply, playing with his daughter's red bootied foot.

"What?"

He sighs long and deep. "Growing up."

She leans back into him a bit further, remembering how it felt to sit and watch movies with him like this back in the day, back when she was a kid. Back when times like the holidays were all about her just having fun, and getting presents. Back when she didn't have to worry about making things perfect for everyone, because back then they were all so busy making it perfect for her.

"Yeah," she says with a sigh to match her uncle's. "Yeah, it does."

000000000000000000000000000000

It's two hours later by the time dinner's done and the kids have crashed. Ava helps the boys upstairs to Maya's room, where they'll stay the night, sleeping soundly for at least a few hours following a pretty heavy duty sugar high. It takes both Sarah and Rachel to wrangle Maya up the stairs and into the room she'll share with her sister, and that makes Dean giggle under his breath because her peculiar state is entirely his fault, having given her some vicodin he had on him – old habits hard to break. He made her promise not to tell her mom and dad, but he _did_ tell Rache that she shouldn't worry about being woken up this Christmas Eve by an annoying little sister, she'll be out like a light.

Sam and Dean collapse onto the couch and eye the relatively sparse offerings under the tree, both thinking, _dreading_, the same thing, digging presents out of all their hiding spots and putting them out. "You think it's weird?" Sam asks casually.

Dean takes a pull on his beer before responding. "What?"

"Working so hard to make the kids believe in Santa. You know, when we try to keep them from knowing about, or believing in…other things."

"Nope," he says with a shrug.

They hear a light crash and giggling erupt from upstairs. Sam glances over at his brother and narrows his eyes. "By the way, I know you gave Maya something."

He snorts indignantly. "Said she was in pain."

"Yeah, well."

"Yeah, well, if I left it up to you, you'd have given a chewable baby aspirin, you big paranoid girl."

"Excuse me, not wanting my daughter drugged does not make me a big paranoid girl."

Dean makes a _psh_ noise and sets down his bottle, glances over at the portacrib with a sleeping pumpkin inside and says, "You know I wouldn't give her anything she couldn't handle."

And it was true, he did know that, but spending Christmas Eve digging glass out of his daughter's ass had made him a bit more protective. And perhaps a bit more cynical.

They both turn back to the television to catch the last few minutes of the movie. "You remember how may times we saw this growing up?" he asks with a smile, good memories being a rarity when it came to his and Dean's childhood.

"Considering it was on network TV every year, so we could see it no matter what shitty flea-bag motel we were in? A lot."

"I remember Dad watching it with us," he says, far off voice.

Dean turns to him questioningly, not because he doesn't remember, just because he never thought Sam did. Because it didn't go on for too long, not once John found out how much evil enjoys causing trouble on holy days. Typically their Christmases were spent locked inside the hotel with enough food for a couple of days and enough channels to get them by.

There was no Santa for them, but for the one in Miracle on 34th Street. No Rudolph and reindeer on their roofs, only in Claymation reruns. And there was no wonderful life, not really, not for them.

"It was his favorite," Dean mutters, almost too quiet to hear.

"I know."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: They grow up so fast...

* * *

"Snot," she sings out gleefully, in between e_kes_ and _braps_. She pats her father's shoulders, playful baby slaps, as he jostles her to the other hip so he can set down the diaper bag and dig through.

"Apricots," he says, tossing a jar of baby food into Sam's hands. "And carrots," so goes another. "One or the other. She only wants orange stuff right now, a phase or something."

Sam smirks, investigating the little jars with the creepy giggling baby on their labels. "You keep feeding her this stuff, she'll look like an Oompa-Loompa."

He responds with a quick glare before returning to the task at hand, emptying the giant black bag's contents onto the kitchen table. "Two extra jumpers," he says, distractedly fake biting at the chubby baby fingers tugging on his lower lip. "Al the Seahorse," shaking the rattle animal at his brother. "Extra socks…"

Sam stares disbelieving. "Extra socks?" Because that's just what every kid who doesn't even yet know how to walk on her own really needs.

Dean only nods. "Socks." Next he pulls out a tiny pink sun hat, says, as though the item requires an explanation, "Hat."

Sam nods slowly, coy smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I can see that."

"If she goes outside, she has to wear her hat," he responds defensively. "She's fair-skinned."

A rather condescending frown takes the place of his grin. "Fair-skinned?" he questions with mock interest, causing Dean to roll his eyes.

"Dude, don't look at me like that, this is serious."

"I know, I know," he says, hands thrown up in a _calm down_ appeal. "She could break out in unruly freckles."

"For the record, Sam, you got no idea what it's like to be a kid covered in freckles. Other kids laughing and pointing, making fun."

"No one made fun of you for having freckles. They made fun of you because you had shitty taste in clothes, music and …well, everything."

"Dude!" His had instinctively clamps down on Samantha's ear, plastering her tiny dark head to his chest. She lets out a high pitched squeal in protest, sound echoing in unison with Sam's large guffaws.

"You're kidding, right?" he asks, because Dean's never been one to censor himself around anyone, let alone his children. Hell, as of late Michael seemed to curse more often and with more colorful enthusiasm than a shipwrecked sailor.

As if thinking the exact same thing Dean replies, "Ava's kinda pissed about Mike's new vocabulary. It's like he saved all these things up that he heard once, somewhere along the way –"

"Once?" he interrupts incredulously.

"And he's just pulling them out of his…hat, now. Little punk," he mumbles to himself. "Anyway, we're all supposed to watch what we say around them." He grabs another item from the bag, a soft round teething ring, and flings it at Sam. "Here, freeze that," he says, head ducked so that he misses his brother's mad scramble to catch the ring while also juggling two jars of food.

Once recovered, Sam tosses the toy in the freezer, letting it fall on top of two other teething contraptions that had been either in with their frozen peas or in the slobbery little girl's mouth for a couple of weeks now. Sammy had been a calm and quiet baby just a month ago, but as soon as she started cutting teeth the sweet little pumpkin turned into a raucous, red faced, shrieking monster. Hardly her fault, but if anyone in the family, extended or not, wanted to keep their brains from oozing out their ears at the sheer decibel of her _voice_, teething rings had to be made readily available at all times.

But that's exactly why there were already two in the freezer, preparation for Samantha's fits whenever she was over. Which was _all the time_. "You know," Sam says plainly, "we already have all this stuff here. Diapers, wipes, extra clothes, toys, porta crib. Hell, she's got more chew toys in the our freezer than the neighbor's dog."

Dean stops his unpacking, looks up and over at his brother. "Why do you have chew toys from your neighbor's dog in your freezer?"

Sam frowns, rolls his eyes. "Ha ha," he deadpans. "You know what I mean."

"Just wanted to be sure," he says in response to Sam's initial declaration. "Want her to have everything she needs."

"Like socks," he mutters under his breath.

Dean, unamused, follows with, "Yeah, Sammy, like socks. She shuffles around all over the place, dirty carpets – "

"Our carpets aren't dirty."

"And she loses them, just peels them off," he stops short, looks up at Sam, a serious and somber light to his face. "She needs them."

Sam sighs, long and meaningful. The only thing _needed_ here was a little perspective. "It's only for a few hours," he says softly. "She'll be fine." And even as he says it, he's not sure if he's referring to Dean's daughter or his own. Because while leaving his baby in the care of a thirteen-year-old may be a bit worrisome for Dean, leaving _his_ thirteen-year-old to care for a baby was pretty nerve wracking for him as well.

"Where's Rachel, anyway?" Dean asks before leaning back and out of the kitchen doorway, bellowing her name up the stairs. "She needs to hear all this."

"Dean, she knows what she's doing," he says, believing it thoroughly as the words form in his mouth.

"Yeah," he responds absently.

"She's done this before. She usually takes over when you guys come by anyway. Only difference now is that we won't be here while she babysits." Dean looks up, horrified, because that's exactly the problem. And truth be told, it scares Sam too. Which is why he quickly adds, to quell his own growing anxiety as much as Dean's, "We'll be five minute away, though. Max." Sad but true, when this whole plan had been hatched, going out for an _adult_ dinner, celebrating Ava's birthday without kids around to cry and scream and get too, too hopped up on cake, they picked the closest restaurant possible.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Dean says, arms wrapping tighter around his baby. "Maybe we should have just hired a sitter."

"You'd trust a stranger to watch her?" he asks, knowing full well what the answer would be. John and Michael are one thing, being old enough to fend for themselves should they have to, old enough to call 911 and blow the 'rape' whistle Ava had given them. But even the boys had only a few select people they were entrusted to: an old lady down the street who'd been there for years, came over and cooked for Dean and Ava when the babies were fresh and new, the Sullivan's, a family with four boys who went to school with John and Michael, and, of course, Sam and Sarah. That's it, no one else.

But, to be fair, that was really just the Winchester way, trust no one.

"Maybe we just shouldn't go," he tries next.

"Yeah, you be sure to run that one past Ava when she gets back," Sam says with wide eyes. Because before leaving to drop the boys off at the Sullivan's for a sleepover just a few minutes ago she'd almost cried with gratitude over being able to have a meal, _just a meal_, sans children. "Besides," he goes on, voice heavy with sarcasm, "Rache knows not to leave babies in direct sunlight."

"Funny," Dean responds flatly with a glare.

"We almost ready?" chimes Sarah, rushing into the kitchen still working on her earrings. "Reservation's at seven." Rachel clomps in behind her, stopping to smile at the baby from behind Dean's back, mouthing excited words to her.

"Just as soon as Ava gets back," Sam says to her before turning to his daughter. "Rache, your uncle has some very important instructions for you."

Dean turns to deposit the baby in her waiting arms, having no choice but to let her go. The moment Samantha saw her cousin, her face lit up, limbs bobbing and stretching as she reached out and attempted to climb over her father's shoulder to get at her. The baby gurgles gleefully, hazel eyes taking in all of Rachel's face even as "Snot," rolls from her lips amid a stream of drool.

"Did she just say snot?"

"New favorite word," Dean replies, straightening his daughter's T-shirt before leaning away to grab a rag. "Blame Michael."

"Snot?" She shakes her head incredulously, looks down at the baby. "No, no. Say Rachel. Ray-chel."

Dean wipes saliva off the baby's mouth, fingers, face in general, Rachel's arm and his own neck. "Good luck, kid," he says easily. I've been trying to get her to say Daddy, Dada, hell I'd even settle for Duh, since we brought her home from the hospital. Nada. But anything Michael says seems to stick."

"Ah," Sam says knowingly, "so it's only a matter of time before she starts shooting out the dirty words you taught him."

"I didn't teach him…never mind." He shakes his head and grabs a toy from the bag, shoves it his daughter's mouth just as her face begins to twist and curl. He's gotten good lately at sensing when she's about ready to blow, moving quickly to appease her, and him. Because every time she cries out in that special _my jaw is splitting wide open and trying to _kill_ me_ way, it breaks his heart. Better to stop it before it starts.

"Well," Rachel says, taking hold of the toy and ignoring her father and uncle, "we'll just have to do something about that then, won't we?"

"Yeah, well, important as that is," Dean says in a serious tone, "there are some other things we need to go over."

Sarah rolls her eyes at Sam, giving him a _knock it off _stare as he says through a shit eating grin, "That's right, remember, the _teething rings_ go in the freezer, not the _baby_."

"Hey, Jokey McJokerson," Dean turns on his brother, "This isn't a freaking joke."

But before Sam can respond, Sarah says, in her absolute mother tone, "No, it's not." She looks down her nose at Rachel. "This is a big responsibility. Your dad and I won't be here to help. It's all on you."

"I know," she says, doing the best she can to keep her teenage cockiness in check. "I've sat for Mrs. Carlson's twins before. And I watch Maya all the time." Then, turning to Dean with an all too coy twinkle in her eye, "It'll be fine, really. Besides, I'm a woman now. Remember?"

Sarah bites her lip to keep from laughing while Sam looks moderately embarrassed, at the very least entirely uncomfortable, this is his little girl after all.

But it's Dean whose face falls into a horrified sort of grimace. Because it is pure evil to bring that up, the most traumatic moment of his life thus far, at least the most traumatic of the past month. And it hadn't exactly been a picnic for her either, so what was she doing joking about it, when it should have just moved back into the inner recesses of their shut-off subconscious minds, never to be spoken of again?

"Rachel," Sam warns weakly from across the room, mostly just because she has that glint in her eye that reminds him a little too much of his brother.

"I'm just saying," she continues in a very adult tone. "My body has changed. I'm now able to carry and give birth to a child." Sarah ducks her head, wracking breaths forcing their way out among the stifled laughter. Rachel looks to her beat red uncle. "That's what you told me, right Uncle Dean?"

He's barely able to clear his throat, let alone his mind, as the events of that horrible day – why had they decided to go a movie just the two of them anyway? Shouldn't they have known, at her age, it was always necessary to have a woman around just in case? – came flooding back to him. The sudden, too long, trip to the bathroom. The awkward, ironically childlike quality to her voice as she said, "I want to go home now. I think we should go home." His idiotic insistence to know what was wrong, pushing, pushing, and pushing. Those most terrible words, "I got my period."

The rest had been an unbearable blur of empty comforts and too precise information. He can still vaguely hear his own voice echoing in his head, "I can get you something, if you need it. I used to buy tampons for your dad all the time. I mean, not _for_ your dad. They were great for bloody noses. Or bloody…other things. Natural things. Because this is totally natural. For you, not, you know for Sammy. Which is fine, because it never happened to him, cause, you know, he's your dad, and so, not a woman. But you are…now. So…natural. And beautiful."

And, yes, though he couldn't recall the exact words he'd painfully hobbled together, there had definitely been some stuff thrown in there about having babies, and uterine lining, and mucous plugs – all the stuff he learned from Ava's OBGYN during her pregnancies. And there may have been a comment or two on breast feeding and how Michael, apparently, latched on like a pit bull, which is why he went to the bottle so young, possibly impacting his hyperactivity. Just a theory.

Rachel had stared blankly at him for the entirety of their _conversation_, never once stopping him, not even when he began to relay to her the story of Sammy's first wet dream and the inherent awkwardness of it, due primarily to the fact that Dean had been sharing a bed with him at some crappy motel outside Wichita at the time. He thought she had blocked it out, all of it. He only wished that he could.

"That's what you said, right?" Apparently he had been wrong. "And if I can be trusted with the responsibility of taking birth control pills – "

"Wait, what?" Sam shoots out, voice cracking.

In as innocent a tone as she can muster, Rachel replies, "Uncle Dean said that I needed to go on the pill."

"I never," he tries through awkward breaths.

"Because women enjoy sex just as much as the next guy," she goes on, quoting her uncle word for word. "So it's my responsibility to keep it safe."

"What?" Sam repeats, more horrified than before.

Dean, feeling what might actually be a panic attack, barely squeaks out an, "I…"

"Mom," Rachel says, turning to look at a bit more sober Sarah – because while she knew that Dean had panicked and flooded Rache with way too much information, she hadn't been able to get _all_ of what he said out of her traumatized daughter. "Where can I get a dental dam?"

And she knew, the moment she saw her father reach out for the counter to steady himself, all color drained from his face, the minute she heard her mother's voice, "Dean!" screech out, more upset than amused, she knew. Blackmail was a beautiful thing. So was simply being able to embarrass someone to the point of giving in just to make the torture stop.

"The point is," she says clearly and slowly, "if I can handle the responsibility of actually having a baby, I think I can manage taking care of one for a few hours."

"You are _not_ having a baby," Sam grumbles in his most stern voice. "_Ever_."

It's the voice he uses when she or Maya are really in trouble, grounded for life, _you're lucky I don't strangle you right here and now_ kind of trouble. So she almost thinks twice about offering up the insolent, "Of course not, that's what the pills are for." But not quite.

Sarah twists her daughter around to face her and gives her the look, the one that always manages to elicit the desired response, whether it be a _sorry_ or an, "I'm only kidding. I'm not having sex. I would _never_ have sex." Which is exactly what Rachel says.

She narrows her eyes at the girl, sizing up her response before deciding it's true and it really is all a joke, at Dean's expense. "What in the hell did you say to her?" she asks her brother-in-law.

He tries to smile, though it comes out more as a grimace. "Apparently, too much."

"I told you he lost it," Rachel says, almost conspiratorially.

"I hate you," he whispers to her, scooping his baby back up into his arms.

"No you don't," she singsongs. "You love me. And you trust me." She reaches for Samantha, but he turns his back on her.

"Not anymore."

The front door flies open, Ava hopping through excitedly, practically skipping into the kitchen, as Sarah takes Sammy from Dean's arms, transitioning the baby over to Rachel. "Yes you do," she says. "And just think, Rachel did you a favor. She broke the ice. Now when Samantha gets her period, you'll be prepared."

Ava's smile drops as she enters, quickly figuring out what they're discussing. "Oh, no. He's not allowed to even talk to my daughter after the age of ten. Mister TMI over there, uh-uh," she says shaking her head emphatically.

Dean looks over at Rachel who merely shrugs her shoulders. "I thought Aunt Ava should know, you know, how…helpful you were."

"I used to love you," he says in a wistful sort of tone. "Used to."

She smiles and nods. "I know." Then wrinkles up her face and lifts the baby to sniff her. "My client needs a change, so I've got to go. And I think," she says as she turns to leave the room, "you all have reservations you'd better keep."

"Yeah," Sam mumbles, pushing himself off the counter. "After the two of you," he glares at Dean, "I definitely need a drink."

"Me too," he says, following his brother and the ladies out the door.

And even though he can still feel a bright burning in his cheeks, a sort of embarrassment that won't soon disappear, he can't help but notice that his heart's calmed its rhythm just a bit, fear and anxiety slipping away as he hears his daughter giggle and screech in the next room, safe and happy with her cousin. Realizing what's happened, how she cunningly made him forget about his initial trepidation by, well, humiliating him, Dean shakes his head absently. "You little shit," he mutters with a smile.

Ava slaps him on the arm before grabbing on to pull him out the door. "Watch your mouth," she says, not even realizing that, for once, there aren't any little ears around to hear.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: Because I feel like Maya has been the ignored child. Good luck ignoring her now.

* * *

She turned ten last month, the big 1-0. No longer a little girl, she was now a near adult. They let her walk to the park alone with John and Michael, issuing hushed commands to _keep an eye on the boys, you're in charge_. They stopped going over _all _of her homework, saying she was old enough now to know that's her own responsibility.

And they stopped checking on her in the middle of the night, peeking in at her _sleeping_ form, at times entering and perching on the side of her bed, rubbing a warm hand lightly over her back. When she was little she would kick her covers off, even if it meant curling into a tight, tiny ball to keep warm, all to ensure that when her mother or father looked in on her, someone would have to come and tuck her in again.

Sarah knew she was awake, always somehow knew, no matter how well Maya acted the part of sleeping little angel. She'd pull the blankets back over her, up to her neck and shoulders, and then reach out with long, lithe fingers, lightly tickling her throat with their tips. "Go to sleep," she'd say after eliciting the sought after laughter. There were times she said it, low and light, almost a whisper, a breath pushed out from smiling lips – because somehow she could just _sense_ her mother's smile – even without tickling or tucking her in, or doing anything to prove she was awake. It made Maya wonder if she said it every time she entered her room late at night, just in case, even if she truly was asleep.

If Sam ever knew she was faking, purposely slowing her breaths, working to keep her lids loose and limbs tight, he never let on. But her father was like that sometimes, horrible at keeping the fun secrets, an awkward smile or convenient aversion of the eyes always giving him away. But somehow truly adept at keeping certain _information_ to himself. When the girls planned a special Mother's Day breakfast for Sarah one year, which Sam decided was the sweetest, cutest thing ever, he walked around all day with _I know something you don't know_ practically oozing from his pores.

But, a couple of years back, when Maya punched a boy at the playground – which she had no choice about, mind you, he'd been throwing rocks at John – she spent the entire evening thinking she got away with it, nothing about either of her parents' demeanors showing any knowledge of the event. Until it was time for bed and Sam had looked down at her after kissing her forehead, with a gaze she couldn't quite place, somewhere between fear and pride, guilt and amusement, and he said, "Violence is only ever a last resort. Understand? _Last resort_."

And so it was that propensity for giving nothing away, that mysterious, hard to read, to interpret way of her father's that made it all the more exciting when she was afforded the opportunity to feign sleep in front of him. Because she may actually be fooling the old man. And all the more meaningful too, when he'd gently swipe aside the hair from her face, run a rough thumb down the length of her cheek, her jaw. Because if he really thought she was asleep, then he wasn't doing it for her, he was doing it for himself.

But all that had stopped months ago, late night trips to check on sleeping babies gradually waning, growing further and further apart as a lack of necessity, a sense of complacency began to grow over the last couple of years. Which is why, though her father often kept hidden the things he knew, and she was sure her mother could do the same if she were so inclined, Maya was fairly certain that her parents were entirely unaware of her awful dreams.

They started just a few weeks before her birthday, short snippets of things she didn't understand, events she'd never seen happen. Then they gradually got longer, fuller, people she vaguely thought she recognized before becoming full flesh and bone in her mind's eye.

Her father. Her uncle. Younger and stronger, lean and tall, despite being so often, too often, bloodied and bruised. They were children at times, laughing and playing in the back of that old car her Uncle Dean kept in his garage, a stern looking man with a hint of a smile in his eyes, watching from the front, gaze flickering back and forth between the road and his children in the rearview mirror. She'd only ever seen two pictures of her Grandpa John, both showing someone far too young to be a grandfather, far too happy to be this man she saw in her dreams. But it was him none the less, of that she was sure.

The sight of monsters in these dreams often scared her. Quick moving _things_ bursting out from nowhere, behind a cave's rock wall, or a dense group of trees. Some were tall and lanky, thin limbs moving in a blur to strike. Others were heavy or hairy, like a huge dog, or a wolf, blood and saliva dripping from their teeth. She'd wake with a start, sweat plastering her hair, her clothes, to her clammy skin, a sick feeling prickling in her gut.

But somehow she was never as afraid as she thought she ought to be. Somehow she knew, though often waking before all the events unfolded, that her father and uncle, grandfather too, had done away with the beasts, killed them all.

True, the monsters and ghosts and things she couldn't even identify may have been frightening in their own way, but the worst dreams were the ones that held no villains at all.

There was the time she saw her mother, easily recognizable since, according to her uncle at least, she never seemed to age, sitting at the bedside of an older woman. Crying. Grasping the woman's hand as though it were a lifeline, as though, should she let go, they both might fall away into nothing.

"Don't go, Mama," Sarah had said, high pitched childlike voice that made Maya want to turn and run, never acknowledge, never again see, that version of her sad and broken mother.

She'd watched as her uncle tore apart his cherished car, beaten the dark metal again and again with a rage and sorrow that terrified her for days, weeks, following. Looking into Dean's so often smiling face and trying to reconcile it with that other, trying _not_ to see how it could ever be, ever have been, contorted into such a pained grimace.

She saw her Aunt Ava wake in the middle of night, confused and scared with blood on her hands and a man, dead, in her bed. She listened as Ava screamed out in grief-filled agony, followed along, as though in quick motion, as that grief turned to vengeful desire, to near sadism. Her aunt called upon a shadow to kill a man, to kill her father too. And then she herself fell dead.

That was the first time Maya woke with a scream, hearing it fill the air of her room before ever feeling it rise up in her throat. Normally she could quell the urge to cry out at what she had seen. She could keep herself still, forcing her head back to the pillow, guiding her wide eyes around the room in an attempt to show herself, _look, you're here, you're home, you're safe. _

_It was only a dream._

There were too many times she'd wanted to bolt from her room, burst in on her mother and father, cry in their arms as they soothed away her fears, chased away all the images. Of long dead relatives suffering in silence, of people she loved being brought to their knees in pain, in fear, in death. But she was too old to _need_ her parents like that. She was too proud, as her mother would have said.

She told them she was fine, when they rushed into her room that night, Sam first, on full alert, his swift and purposeful movements looking so like that young man from her dreams. She said it was a nightmare, as she snuffled back the tears, worked so hard to keep from letting it all loose as they gathered her in their arms collectively, wrapped themselves around her so fiercely, protectively.

"What was it about?" he mother had asked with sweet concern. "What happened?"

"I don't remember," she replied, wishing it were true.

She had a feeling Sam knew then. The look he gave her in the dark of the room, so worried and aware. The way he rubbed her back, not soft and soothing like usual, but rough and urgent, as though he were trying to scrub the dream away. As though he knew that the dream _needed_ to be scrubbed away.

But then she fell asleep again, this time her mind a blank, sleep dreamless, and when she woke the next morning it was as though nothing had happened. There was no mention of the harrowing ordeal as everyone rushed to get to school and work on time.

This morning was different though. This morning no one rushed anywhere, and not simply because it was a Saturday either, because half the time the weekends are more hectic than the rest of the week. This morning something was up. And she knew why. Because last night's dream had been the worst to date. And she couldn't get it out of her mind, couldn't talk herself into believing it was only a dream, not real, just another nightmare. She couldn't keep herself from crying in that cold dark room, sobs wracking her body to the point that she hadn't even been aware of her parents entering, hadn't even noticed them lowering themselves to her bed, hadn't been able to acknowledged their voices as they begged her to tell them what was wrong.

She was too old, and too proud, but even so, there was no way to keep herself from falling apart, from falling into her father's long strong arms and tugging, grasping, gripping so tight around him, sobbing into his chest as she strained to hear the steady _bum-bump_ of his heart beating. Just to be sure.

Because last night she saw her father die.

When she woke this morning it was late, nearly ten, though she'd had a soccer game scheduled for eight. She guessed her parents decided it was best to let her skip it, the first sign that something was terribly off. Because they were always preaching to her about responsibility and not letting your teammates down, never letting her out of practices, let alone games, despite constant whining and attempted excuses.

The house is quiet as she shuffles downstairs, knowing that even with her teeth brushed, hair back, and clothes on, she looks like hell, eyes so puffy they're nearly swollen shut, skin red and blotchy. It occurs to her that one reason for the quiet is that Rachel's probably already left, this Saturday being one of her special Uncle Dean days that no one else is allowed to attend.

Maya and her uncle have their own days too, just the two of them, when they go to the movies or the park to play basketball, maybe soccer. They're fun, she always enjoys them, but somehow she knows that _her_ days with Dean are really just a ruse, a placating gift to keep jealousy and curiosity at bay regarding his time with Rachel. Because she's always been certain that whatever they do on their special days, it's not just playing in the park.

Once she even had a dream about the two of them, shooting empty soda cans off a fence. Rachel, a bit younger, was laughing between tugs on the trigger, Dean standing behind, cheering her on, smile flashing joy and pride.

She takes the stairs slowly, proceeding with caution, though she's not sure why. There's a familiar roiling fear in her stomach, just like the one she gets before parent-teacher conferences, when she knows news of her poor grades will result in no TV and extended study sessions.

But this is different, they wouldn't punish her for this, would they? For having a nightmare and being scared? Sure she was too old to cry like she had, waking them from what was likely a restful sleep, disturbing them in the middle of the night. Maybe they didn't take her to her game because _they_ were too tired, and now they were waiting for her downstairs, exhausted and crabby, disappointed in her for being such a baby.

But when she enters the kitchen, they don't seem angry, both sitting at the table hunched over cups of coffee. They look up at her, Sarah offering an unconvincing smile as she says simply, "Hey there."

"I thought I had a game today," Maya says, because it's all she can think to say. Beneath the table she glimpses her father's long leg bouncing and she realizes they've probably been up for hours, sitting and waiting and drinking too much coffee. Her father always drinks too much coffee when he's stressed or worried.

"We thought you could probably use some sleep," he says, voice slow and deep. "After last night."

She doesn't know how to respond, so she simply doesn't.

"C'mere," her mother says softly, inching a chair out for her in between the two of them. "We want to talk to you for a minute."

She stands utterly still, deer in headlights, though she's unsure why. They don't look angry, only concerned. And she said _we _want_ to talk to you_, not _we _need_ to talk_, universal code for you're gonna get it.

"Maya," her father says, low and commanding. And she goes to sit.

Sarah reaches her hand out and starts to rub long strokes down the length of her daughter's arm, but Maya pulls away roughly, the eye roll that's become so inherently a part of her flickering as she bites out, "What?"

And Sarah draws her hand back, face and posture falling visibly at being so spurned. Because Maya's always been more independent, but her shrinking away still feels like a low blow, especially when she was only trying to help, only trying to ease whatever pain was so obviously eating at her little girl.

"What happened last night?" her father asks, ducking his head into her line of vision so as to ensure that their eyes meet.

She shrugs absently, turning away.

"Okay," he drawls as he leans back in the chair. "What's _been_ happening?"

She doesn't intend to give anything away, the surprise at hearing that he knows _something_ has been going on, but her head snaps up violently, eyes wide, even if only for a moment, before she drops her gaze and shrugs once more.

"Honey," her mother says, which is strange because of all the kids she's the one least likely to be called something like that, as though everyone could just tell from the get go that she'd never put up with any pet names or terms of endearment the way other children did. "Your teacher said you haven't been focusing in class, that you've even fallen asleep a few times," she says in a light, concerned tone.

"I have not," she spits out vehemently, even though it's true.

After certain dreams she can't bring herself to go back to sleep, sometimes simply staring at the ceiling for hours, willing the sun to rise. But no one was supposed to know that. No one was supposed to notice how tired she'd been, how difficult it was to concentrate. She'd tried so hard to cover it; they all should have been fooled.

Sam looks at her thoughtfully before saying, as though he'd managed to read her mind, "Something's bothering you. Stop trying to hide it. Whatever it is. Just stop."

And again, without even thinking, she retorts, "I'm not."

"Stop lying," he says in such an ominous and imposing way that she can't help but be taken aback, his tone just that harsh.

No one's ever called her a liar before, not really, not like that, and the mere fact that it is her father accusing her now causes tears to well in her already prone eyes.

"Did something happen?" Sarah asks, voice breaking slightly at the end, as though if something had it would signal the end of the world.

"No," she mumbles, wet, swollen eyes, aimed down, staring at nothing.

"You've been having nightmares," Sam says, a statement of fact that she neither confirms nor denies. Then, in a more gentle and…pleading voice than she's ever heard come from her father's lips, he asks, "What happens in the dreams?" And more urgently, "What do you see, baby?"

And there it is again, a pet name thrown out for one of only two reasons she can imagine. Either they know nothing and their worried, scared, for her. Or they know everything and neither of them can bring themselves to say her name. Because _Maya_ is their daughter, their youngest girl who likes to play sports and sucks at school, but still tries really hard.

And _she _is nothing but a freak who has awful dreams about things she's never seen, yet knows are real.

She doesn't want to be that girl, the one who watches people she loves suffer and die, night after night, every time she closes her eyes. She doesn't want to have the dreams at all, or forgo sleep just to keep them at bay. She doesn't want to disappoint her teachers by not paying attention in class, or her coaches and teammates by not being able to keep up, being too tired to even really try. She doesn't want to snap at her sister or her cousins out of pure fatigue and frustration. Or look at her uncle and aunt, or her mother and father, and try not to see all that she's been shown over the last couple of months. But most of all she doesn't want to be someone who her own parents don't even recognize.

And right now, they're looking at her just like that, like they don't know her at all.

"Nothing," she says, strong and final, as she chokes back the tears. "They're just dreams. I don't _see_ anything." She rises from the table, feeling Sam's hand slip away from her back, though she hadn't even realized he'd set it there. "Nothing happened. Nothing's wrong," she almost yells, so eager to make them believe.

But they look at her just the same, with a sad sort of shock and confusion that she can't stand to see. So she turns quickly on her heal, nearly toppling, tripping over her own too long legs, and bolts up the stairs, two at a time.

She locks the door and leans up against it, rocking slowly as she lowers herself to the floor, wills herself not to cry. She fails miserably and eventually lets the hot pulsing thrum of her blood, the cool hard, grounding, wood of her bedroom floor, work together to lull her to sleep.

And she dreams of fire. And of blood, more than she's ever seen before.

There's a heat so intense it prickles her skin as though singeing every hair on her body. But she can't see where it's coming from, the whole room seemingly engulfed. For a brief moment she thinks she hears voices, panic-filled shouts. _Go. Run._ But the crackle and hiss of the fire is so loud, she can't be sure.

Then, all at once the room blanches and cools, flames being sucked back up into neat blue walls, the sound of a baby cooing and gurgling being the only slight respite from the otherwise eerie silence.

She had always been off in the periphery of her dreams, merely a set of eyes watching as events unfold. Not this time.

This time she feels a presence behind her, like breath on her shoulder. And when she turns to look, she sees a man she's never seen before, yet somehow recognizes. A man with yellow eyes that seem to speak all on their own. _You're mine_, they say to her. _You belong to me._


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I own nothing, still.

Author's Note: A bit late for Father'd Day...sorry.

* * *

"I'm done. Done, done, done," he finishes before collapsing onto the bed.

Ava smiles, that mischievous child smile, as she makes her way over, flopping down beside him. "Wore you out, huh?" she asks, eyes alight with laughter.

Dean only sighs, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. "They're monsters, all of them. Even the little one."

"They're your children," she chides with a slap to the chest. "They're angels."

"Monsters."

"Angels."

"Monsters."

She lifts herself up, swings a leg over his trunk, straddling him with a coy little smirk before leaning down and kissing him, long and slow, a firm but gentle tug on his bottom lip. "Angels," she breathes into his mouth.

This time he doesn't argue.

He thrusts his fingers into her hair, tangling them in her dark curls as he pulls her closer. She giggle-moans into him, small hands moving down to the waistband of his jeans, _popp_ing the button, working the zipper, reaching down…

"Dad!"

She releases her grip and sits up atop him, all the while "No, no, no," eking out of him in an exasperated whine. Because Father's Day or not, the last person he wants to be right now is Dad.

"Your son's calling," she leans down and whispers in his ear, a low thing to do, a cheap and dirty trick. Because she's gotta know that there's no way he can stop, no way he can…

"Daddy!"

"What?!" he screams, Ava nearly falling off the bed as the bellow resounds in her ear. She tries to get some balance back but hits the floor with a heavy thud as soon as Dean moves to help her, his shoulder coming up too fast and knocking her in the face.

She sits on the floor, stunned, for a fraction of a second before Michael swings open the door, barreling through at full speed and tripping over his poor felled mother. Which, as soon as he recovers from the shock of being head over heels in his mom's lap, he realizes is the funniest thing, ever.

Dean falls back into the bed, shutting his eyes tight. "What?" he repeats defeated, softer but still loud enough to overcome his son's laughter.

Michael sputters, giggles never getting a chance to fade as Ava pulls him closer, mercilessly tickling his sides, his neck, just under his chin. "John," he screeches out, followed by, "'S crying," through uneven breaths.

"Great," Dean mumbles as he pulls himself off the bed, stepping exaggeratedly over his wife and son. "Just freakin' great."

_This is getting ridiculous,_ he thinks to himself, his eldest son, now ten-years-old, still falling into tears at the drop of a hat. _This _is_ ridiculous._

He doesn't bother to ask _why_ John's crying as he makes his way out of the room, Michael and Ava's laughter mingling together behind him. He decides he doesn't even _care_ why as he descends the stairs, John's wails, soft and steady, mixing in with Samantha's more urgent, shrieking cry in the living room ahead.

He bends down to pick up his daughter, wrapping the two-year-old in his arms even as she pushes and pulls away. "What's wrong, pumpkin?" he asks, wiping hot tears from her red cheeks. She doesn't answer, only leans back in his grip, reaching out for John. He sighs, long and hard. "Fine," he mumbles, setting her down on the couch next to her brother.

John settles to a mere whine and whimper as Sammy scuttles near him, laying her head in his lap.

She's done this forever, it seems, burst into unruly tears alongside her brother, never letting him cry alone. From the time she could crawl she would unsteadily make her way over, flop down as close to him as possible and cry her little heart out alongside him. Maybe she was commiserating, misery loving company and all. Dean liked to think his daughter simply had a twisted sense of humor and was actually ridiculing the boy, imitating his pathetic wails. But, more likely than anything was the simple, _she loves him_ explanation Ava offered. _She loves him and it makes her sad when he's sad._ Really, who knows?

"Okay," he says, absolutely no patience in his voice. "What? What happened?"

"She ruined it," John hiccups, pointing to a pile of paper and crayons on the coffee table.

Dean leans over and picks up the paper on top, a homemade Father's Day card, just like he gets every year. There's a picture of a tree with a car parked next to it – the Impala most likely, which would make sense since he had just allowed John to work on it with him for the first time last week – on the front. Inside, in careful block letters is, "Happy Father's Day!" Simple and to the point, just as he likes. John's name scrawled underneath in messy cursive, is evidence of another attempt at that new and unique signature he's been attempting for months.

But the problem is clearly evident, long and colorful scribbles blazing across the interior, both sides. Wild and heedless strokes that, he can see looking at the papers beneath, had spread far off the intended page. And, yup, that's his girl for sure. An artist in the making according to Sarah. A pain in the ass according to her mother, who had put way too much time and cleanser into scrubbing waxy marks off the furniture and walls.

"She ruined it!" John screams again, which is odd, because, though he seems to be angry with his little sister, his hand still absently pets her head, smoothing back her dark wavy hair as she lays in his lap.

"She didn't ruin it," he says, more terse than intended. Then, a bit softer, "It's great just the way it is. I love it."

"No you don't," he says unsteadily, tears springing back into motion. "Liar."

"It's even better now," he tries, though even the false enthusiasm can't cover his irritation. "Now it's from both of you."

John turns on him with angry eyes and yells, "It's supposed to be from me!" causing Sammy to shriek even louder.

Dean scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to will the fatigue and annoyance and just plain _bitterness_ away.

He should have known this was coming. He should have seen it, slowly building all morning. First, when Ava let Michael pick out Sammy's clothes this morning instead of John. Then when the special recipe, Daddy's Day pancakes burned on the stove while Ava was hurriedly chatting on the phone. And _then_, when the kids dragged him to the zoo – because that's really where _he_ wanted to go, not _them_, no sir, Dean just _loved_ the freakin' zoo – and he didn't have enough money to buy everyone a funnel cake so they had to share.

And through it all, John barely held on, resolve steadily cracking and chipping away with each little thing that went wrong.

Dean sat down on the couch next to his wailing children and thought, for the first time that day, about his own father. There were too many possible remarks he could picture his dad sharing, too many possible gems of wisdom. _Boy needs to be taught some respect. You go too easy on him, spoil him. You know what happens when fruit begins to spoil, son? It rots away, taking all the other fruit with it._

What did he know anyway? What the hell kind of bang up job did he do with his kids?

Of course, he and Sam _did_ know the meaning of respect. They learned to mind their elders while still never wholly bending to authority. They survived, time and time again, no matter what came their way.

Because they were strong. Because John had _taught _them to be strong, and sturdy, and self-sufficient. Say what you will about his methods, but John Winchester had a way of instilling the most necessary and sought after traits in his children.

And Dean was steadfastly failing at that.

He leans back into the couch, eyes closed as he reaches out a hand, pats and soothes his little girl's baby soft butt. But she continues to cry. John continues to cry. And Dean continues to hear his father's voice echo in his head.

_He's too soft. He needs discipline. He needs a good pop upside the head._

Then another voice interferes, worms its way in through the fray. Sam. From ten years back, when Maya was newly born, and Dean was just coming to grips with the fact that, in some short months, he too would be a father.

"You'll be great," Sam had said, simply, assuredly.

"I don't know what to do," he'd answered, lost in Maya's dark baby eyes, imagining they were those of his own child, staring back at him helplessly.

Sam had laughed, short and sincere. "Sure you do. You've been doing it for years." But Dean knew that how he'd been with Rachel was nothing compared to how he would be with his own kid, that being an uncle was not at all akin to being a parent. And Sam must have sensed what he was thinking, because he shook his head sternly and said, "With _me_, Dean. You've been doing it for years with _me_."

He rolls his head to the side and looks at his children, curled into a loose teary ball together. "John," he says, not moving, still gazing in his direction. His son looks up, meets his eyes in that way only John does, with absolute trust. "Why are you crying?" he asks, as he's never asked it before, with interest.

John sniffles, but doesn't respond, his eyes remaining locked with his father.

Dean moves his hand up from Samantha and into his son's sandy hair, tussling, then smoothing it back down. "Do I take care of you?" he asks in an almost absent way.

John, not even entirely sure that the question is meant for him, gives only a slight nod.

"I took care of him," he says, looking at John, but thinking of Sam. "There was a lot I didn't do, didn't know how to do. But I always took care of him. Always kept him safe. Always tried, anyway." He lets his hand drop, fall back beneath the boy's head, resting between the cushion and his neck.

"Who?" John asks timidly, voice raw from tears.

He sits upright, looks his son straight in the eye and says, "I'm not gonna tell you not to cry. I'm not gonna tell you it makes you weak or a pussy or anything else." He shifts a bit, turning so that he faces him head on. "But it has to be for a good reason. This," he says, picking up the card, "is not a good reason."

John nods, taking in what he's been told a million times before. But as soon as he begins to look away, assuming the talk is over, Dean's hand reaches out and takes hold of his chin, turning him back to lock eyes once more. "You know why it's not a good reason?"

He shrugs, sniffles again.

"Because I don't care about some card that's been scribbled on. Or some plate that's been broken. I don't care if you said something to make your cousin mad, or if you drove your mother crazy bouncing off the walls, or if you didn't get a star on some homework assignment. I don't care. It doesn't matter."

"But," John starts, ready to weep again at hearing how little his dad _cares_.

But he's interrupted with, "I will always take care of you. I will always keep you safe. No matter what you do, or how mad I get, or…" He stops, looks away briefly as though searching for words in the air of the room. "Always," he breathes out, realizing there really are no other words.

Samantha sniffles and coughs, heavy, tired head still laying in her brother's lap, and they both glance down at her. "You took care of Uncle Sam," he almost whispers.

Dean doesn't answer, doesn't have to. He looks down at John's hand as it traces smooth circles on Sammy's back, quieting her down, urging her to sleep. "She cries when you cry," he says softly.

He continues his gentle caress, other hand resting lightly on her head as he says, in a voice more adult than it's ever been, "That's not a reason to cry."


	9. Chapter 9 Part 1

Disclaimer: As per usual, I own nothing.

Author's Note: This chapter ended up being really long - I say _ended_ though it's not even complete yet - so I figured I'd chop it up a bit to ease your reading burden.

* * *

It was supposed to be _her _day, the bi-monthly switch off, she and Rachel heading over to Dean and Ava's, each going with one or the other, while the boys and Samantha stayed over at Sam and Sarah's. Ava Days typically meant shopping, maybe a little spa treatment, hair or nails usually. She said it was the only real girl time she got, being so caught up in a house full of boys – Samantha being only two didn't really count as a girl yet, no matter how many frilly bows and dresses adorned her. She usually just squirmed in them anyway.

Maya wasn't a girly-girl, never had been. She didn't care for fashion, opting for jeans and a T-shirt over the cute sundresses, dress pants and cashmere sweaters Rachel and her mother often wore. And while she liked the way the paraffin wax settled on her skin, smooth and pliant, during the occasional manicure, she always had more fun getting dirt under her fingernails than paint on top of them. That said, she didn't hate going out with Ava, being a girl for a while. And her aunt had always loved to dress them up, had pretty good taste too considering the occasionally overly feminine quality. She had, after all picked out every dress of Maya's that she was willing to wear.

But though she loved her aunt dearly, and secretly liked many of the seemingly too girly clothes she chose, shopping with Ava was not her idea of a perfect day, typically barely holding a candle to going out with Uncle Dean. Today, however, was proving to be very different.

You see, this was not a typical switch-off day, Sam and Sarah having to leave town unexpectedly to tend to Grandpa Blake, who had a stroke. But Dean and Ava thought it'd be a good idea to go along with their plans regardless, simply bringing their own children along as well. Truthfully, they hoped that it would keep the girls' minds off of everything happening in New York, each inquiring, in their own individual ways, about their grandfather endlessly.

There wasn't a doubt in Maya's mind that Ava and Rachel were suffering right now too, Michael in a mall being akin to a cracked out bull in a china shop. But with how her day had been going so far, she couldn't really muster up a whole lot of sympathy.

Because it was supposed to be _her _day, and clearly that was not happening.

The plan had been simple, Dean was to bring her to her soccer game this morning and then they'd hang out at the park a while, grab some lunch, maybe a movie. Spend some _quality time_ together, the kind girls usually had with their own mothers and fathers. But lately all her parents did with her was loom and try to _talk_. And they were usually pretty busy anyway, her dad having such a heavy caseload of late that he'd only been able to make it to one of her games so far this season. So Uncle Dean was the one who picked up the fun-time slack.

But today, already, was proving to be anything but fun-time.

It was cold and wet, thick clouds keeping the sun at bay and random showers muddying the field just enough for kids to be slipping and sliding more than actually playing the game. Which could have been fun, had she wanted to goof off like all the others, stumble and splash and laugh like fools. As it was, she had been looking forward to this game since her parents left town, knowing that the only thing that's ever kept her mind off troubling issues has been losing herself in a competition.

But, apparently, there were simply too many _issues_ to be so simply drown out today. Like, for example, John. Sweet overly enthusiastic John, whom she loved dearly, though rarely admitted to it in public. Because he was shameless and nice, too nice, and just a little bit crazy. And those were perhaps the things that she loved most about him really, his inability to feel embarrassed when his mom kissed him and hugged him in front of other kids, his mere _openness_ to affection of any kind. He was outgoing where she was standoffish, sweet and kind whereas she fought constantly with her moods. He smiled and laughed while she scowled and worried. He wore his emotions on his sleeve, crying when sad, grinning ear-to-ear when happy, and felt them all, the good through the bad, so completely. And she sometimes wondered if she were capable of truly feeling anything at all. And though all of these things made him who he was, her best friend, at least in private, they also made her ashamed of him. Because John was about as far from the norm as you could get in elementary school, and Maya wanted nothing if not to be _normal_.

Today, he'd spent the first half of her game running up and down the sidelines, cheering her name, even though she did little more than stand out in the middle of the field. During one of the timeouts, she actually told Tina Taylor that, _yes, my cousin's retarded, but we call him special._ Which she felt sort of bad about, but ultimately figured that it didn't really matter anyway since Tina went to a different school, so there'd be no way of her knowing the truth or embarrassing him with the lie.

The truth is, John's really smart, a lot smarter than her, always bringing home A's and stars and earning smiles and praise from parents and teachers alike. But he was rather socially inept, too nice to have any real friends, since 10-year-olds as a rule don't _do _nice, have no desire to be around, are simply _too cool_ for nice. And really, his mother, charming in her blasé attitude regarding the thoughts of others, her inability to feel swayed by them or their norms, had perhaps instilled in him a bit too much unabashed fearlessness when it came to peer interaction. Because no one at school liked him, except Maya, and there were times even she outright ignored him for appearance sake.

His antics this morning, while well meaning, were simply humiliating, Maya's cheeks burning in an embarrassed blush on behalf of her cousin. And Dean didn't help any, actually encouraging the behavior, egging him on while he ran and hollered like a lunatic cheerleader. Usually Dean got pretty into her games, screaming at bad calls and yelling about dumb plays, but today his mind was elsewhere, letting his son keep track of the events on the field while he shared a snack with Samantha.

And Maya could tell, glancing up periodically into the bleachers, that he was _trying_ to pay attention to the game, but Sammy was a handful, obviously in a _mood_. She was probably angry about being woken up so early in the morning only to be toted off to a place that looked like such fun, bleachers to climb and fields to run through and balls to chase, none of which, apparently, she was allowed to do, being forced to sit still in her father's lap instead.

Maya understood. She understood that the toddler was a handful and Uncle Dean could only do so much at once, preventing him from watching her play, from seeing her one and only goal. She understood that Sammy and John _had_ to come along, _had_ to amuse themselves somehow. She understood that she couldn't wear her lucky socks because they hadn't been washed, because Mom had to leave town. And she understood why her game was called early on account of rain, after parents started complaining about the possibility of injuries in the rapidly flooding field.

But she sure as hell didn't like _any_ of it.

The rain died down dramatically just after the game was called, so Uncle Dean said they could stick around for a while, John wanting to practice, being a pretty awful soccer player. The boy was simply no good at sports, unless running counted, because he'd gotten plenty of practice at that over the last few years being the smallest and easiest kid to pick on. But he was a hard worker and a quick learner, and while that didn't exactly make up for his lack of talent, it did give Maya some satisfaction in coaching.

The rain now was starting to pick up again, fine mist giving way to heavy drops. Uncle Dean gave in, "Five more minutes," after falling victim to an all too adept puppy dog stare from his son. Then he retreated to a sopping wet bench, calling Samantha over so he could pull up the gollashes she'd been puddle hopping in.

They don't even make it to their allotted minute two before Maya slips in the mud, light tap on the ball accidentally becoming a power house kick, sending it flying straight into John's befuddled face.

Dean doesn't see a thing, so busy with the two-year-old who _won't_ stay in her stroller, and only turns when he hears that all too familiar John wail. The last couple of months had been blessedly quiet compared to the past when it came to John's tear-filled shrieks, so Dean is genuinely surprised when the sound hits him. Even more surprising, more upsetting, is the sight he's met with when he does turn around, blood flowing freely from in between his son's fingertips as his hands press tightly to his nose.

He quickly buckles the strap around Samantha, trapping her – at least for the few minutes it'll take for her to figure out how to undo it – in the stroller, and leaps up to run to John, who's already, with the help of his cousin's guiding hands, stumbling blindly towards him.

"Let me see," he says, a little too frantic, prying the boy's hands away from his face. "Let me see."

"It was an accident," Maya says over the sobs as she massages the muddy hip that broke her fall.

Dean doesn't seem to hear her, doesn't acknowledge a word she says. Doesn't even seem to notice she's there at all until, "Fuck. What the hell, Maya?" thunders out of him, too quick, too harsh.

And it's in that moment that Maya sees something in her uncle she's never seen before. Which isn't to say that he's never gotten angry with her, or any of the other kids, never lost his temper and yelled, spoke harshly at least. And it's not even the fear in his eyes as he turns on her, because that she's seen before too. But there's something in the combination of it all, the terror in his eyes, the anger in his words, the blood on his hands, that reminds her of an Uncle Dean she never knew, one lost somewhere back in time. One stashed back in the deepest recesses of her unconscious mind.

He looks her right in the eye, a fleeting moment of regret as he notices a shadow pass beneath her irises. And then she takes off, Dean's frazzled, "Maya! Maya!"'s chasing behind her.

The rain's picked up considerably and everyone's either already gone or on their way out, so no one stops her, no good Samaritan stills the girl as she runs blindly out into the parking lot where fogged up cars with wiper blades going treacherously back out of spaces and head for the exit.

The first thing Dean thinks as he watches her run, fingers still pressed to his son's oozing face, as his voice rings out after her, is something along the lines of _What the fuck?_ Because, really, where'd that come from? And why now, when his son's bleeding and his baby's trying to escape into the rain.

The second thing he thinks, a quick and intrinsic reaction, is _No._ Because the guy in the Cadillac obviously doesn't see her, and she's not paying any attention to him either.

Fight or flight. He doesn't even think beyond the _No._ Doesn't worry about Samantha, who's gotten her leg tangled in the safety belt, or John, who, mysteriously, stopped crying the moment his cousin ran off, enraptured and staring through puffy swollen eyes at her retreating form. He just reacts, jumping up and running, like he hasn't done in years, in a panicked, adrenaline-fueled, _please God, no_, sort of way.

It isn't clear who hits who, whether the little girl actually runs into the side of the car, or the car slams into her. But she's knocked back regardless, would be down if not for Dean reaching her just in time to break her fall. _But not soon enough_, he thinks, sounds of car breaks and cries drowning out the pounding rain.

He holds her tight, fingers like vise grips on her jacket, arms locked in place, muscles aching with the effort. And he knows he shouldn't hug her so tight, basic first aid. He knows he shouldn't move her at all, not if she's been hit by a car – _How the hell am I supposed to explain this one to Sam?!_ But she's crying and moving all on her own, so she must be okay, or at least conscious and alive, which right now is enough of a relief to justify his holding on so tight.

"Is she okay? Is she all right?" the man from the Cadillac asks in panicked clips. "I didn't see her," he goes on, mumbling mostly to himself. "I didn't see."

And Dean wants to ask her she's okay, wants to inspect her for wounds and breaks, but his voice won't work and his arms aren't letting go, and it's just that simple.

It isn't until he hears, "Calm down, honey," from Caddy Man, that he even realizes her cries have turned into shrieks and her subtle moving has become full on thrashing as she desperately tries to get out of his grip. He lets go immediately, thinking maybe he's hurting her, and she twists violently away from him, slipping and tripping and falling into a heap on the asphalt.

Her eyes don't show pain, they show fear, a thing that simultaneously sends him into relief and panic. "What?" he asks, cautiously reaching down to her. "Maya," he almost pleads, kneeling onto the muddy blacktop.

She won't look at him, won't speak to him, but, though she stiffens at his touch, she does let his hands traverse her body in a search for injuries. He finds nothing, save some scuffs and scrapes, though she does visibly flinch when he makes it to her knee. But even the absence of obvious wounds doesn't keep the paramedics – whom Caddy Man called when he wasn't looking – from trying to scare the crap out of him, talking about the possibilities of internal hemorrhaging and serious concussions.

Part of him knows she's fine, having dealt with much worse than this on an almost daily basis years ago. But another part of him is looking at her, thinking _this isn't the little girl I know_. She simply isn't acting right. And of course, he couldn't bring himself to argue in front of the police, experience having taught him that playing it cool with the cops is an absolute necessity when dealing with a rather frail false identity. The last thing he needs is someone questioning who he is, possibly identifying him as who he used to be.

So he lets the paramedics take her away, heartbroken at having to leave her alone, but realizing he has no other choice, John and Samantha being with him. And he drives to the hospital at a pained pace, because it's raining, making traffic, even on a Saturday, impossible. And his kids are with him, sullen and bewildered, and, in the case of John, bleeding, and he doesn't want to worry or frighten them any more than they already are.

He waits to call Ava until they've pulled into the parking lot, too busy cursing at other cars and then apologizing to and trying to placate his kids. And, of course, she doesn't answer – why the woman even has a cell phone is a mystery to him. "I'm at Mercy General," he says tersely, knowing full well that hearing such a message will send her for a loop. "Call me," he finishes before slamming the phone shut and shoving back into his pocket.

One of the nurses gives John an ice pack, the boy surprising even himself by refusing other treatment. "It's fine," he says with a too raw voice, deep and nasally. "Doesn't even hurt anymore," he lies through teary eyes.

But his stoicism makes his father proud, Dean saying so as he guides him to the men's room to clean him up, an awkward feat while balancing the bouncy toddler on one hip. John, meek and shy, as is always the case when attention becomes focused on him, only shrugs and blushes a bit, not that you could tell from his stained red face.

It's a good twenty minutes before anyone tells him anything, and Ava still hasn't called back. Dean's just finishing with his statement for the police, vacillating between embarrassed and too defensive while responding to their questions.

The doctor says she's fine, just like he thought, but he breathes a sigh of relief just the same. He says they're getting an X-ray of her leg, her knee, just to be sure, but other than that, fit as a fiddle.

He leaves Sammy with John, and John with a nurse, while he ducks in to see her. And he's not sure what he expects, and he has no idea what he's gonna say, but when he pulls back the curtain to her little cubicle, sees her safe and sound and in one piece, the rest really doesn't matter.

"Sorry," she says with barely a trace of insolence as he moves toward the bed. She doesn't look up and he knows why; she's trying not to cry. Normally he'd find that admirable, always had with her in the past, but this is different. He cups her chin with his hand and tilts her face up, locking puffy red-rimmed eyes.

"You okay?" he asks simply, staring her down so as to determine if she's lying.

She nods solemnly and asks, "Is John?"

"Yeah, he's fine." He leans back and smiles, because his son _is_ fine, and so is his niece, and that's one hell of a bullet to dodge. "What's a busted nose between family, right?"

She flinches at his words, images long since seen though never forgotten flowing to the surface. Uncle Dean punching her dad in the nose, with so much anger, so much grief. But, so it would seem, her father forgave him for it, so maybe she'd get lucky and be in the clear with John. After all, it really was an accident.

"Sorry," she says again, as close to sincere as her childish pride has perhaps ever permitted her to be.

"Maya," he says softly, voice deep and real and true. She looks up at him from beneath heavy lids, too heavy and purple, sad and fatigued, for someone her age to possess. "Why'd you run?" he asks, further prodding as she turns away, "Why did you run away from me?"

She doesn't respond, only shrugs minimally, eyes still averted.

He doesn't force her to look at him, doesn't raise her face to his once more. Instead he lets his callused hand fall onto her much smaller, softer one, squeezes gently as he says, "You know I'd never hurt you." Because it's the only thing he can think that _she _might have thought, the only thing that would have forced her to run like she did. "I wasn't angry at you," he goes on in a pained tone. "I could never be so mad that I'd…"

"I know," she says, barely a whisper, as her uncle's voice trails off.

"Then why?" he asks again, brow furrowed in both confusion and pain.

But she can't tell him the truth, that seeing him like that was too similar to the Dean she'd seen in her dreams, the one she prayed had never really existed. Because if that Dean was real, had been real, then it meant that everything else she's seen could be real as well. She can't tell him that she wasn't running away from him, not really. She was running from the awful truth.

He looks at her for a moment, waiting for her to respond, before realizing that it's simply not going to happen. He could push and prod all he wants, but he knows that she inherited her father's dangerously stubborn streak, the same one that always reminded him of his own father. And he knows that there's no way to break through that.

So he stands, and paces, and tries to think of something to say, something that could fix all this. Something like an explanation, or an apology. Something like a set of all too likely false assurances. Just _something_.

But then his phone rings and it's Ava, so he flips it open and takes a breath to speak. Not that she lets him, frantic question after frantic question pouring out from the other end of the line. He only stands, ear to phone, hand to face, and waits for her to stop, not speaking until, "Dean? Dean, are you there?" travels through the cell, followed by a long enough silence for him to respond.

"She's okay," he says simply, sparking a whole new set of inquiries – _She who? Samantha? My baby? Maya? Who?_ – and some repeats of the old – _What happened? What are you doing at the hospital? Dean, talk to me!_

"Maya," he near whispers, for some reason not wanting the girl behind him to hear too much, despite her actually having _gone through it_ _all_. "She was…there was a car…and it was raining…"

He struggles with his words a bit more before she shrieks out something to the effect of, "Maya was hit by a car?!" causing her high and tenuous voice to quickly be replaced by Rachel's on the other end.

Clear, calm, concise Rachel. "Uncle Dean," she starts, "What happened?"

And he tells her, about the park and the rain and John's nose, and his yelling, her running, not being sure who hit whom, but her falling and crying none the less. The whole time, though he works to keep his voice low and steady, he can feel those tiny tired eyes boring into his turned back.

All his life Dean Winchester has had _feelings_, gut reactions and hair raising sensations that warned him something was wrong, off. Flipping the phone shut, turning back to Maya and seeing her there, the tall and lanky 10-year-old looking tiny and scared, broken, in that big hospital bed, he feels that eerie sensation rise within him again. Something is wrong.

Ava arrives twenty minutes later, teary-eyed and frantic, Rachel guiding an eerily silent Michael along while joking about almost having to drive, her aunt being such a menace on the road. Ava holds John so close, fingers tightly clinging to his bloodied shirt, that he actually has to gasp for air in order to get her to let go.

"He's fine," Dean says, tiredly scrubbing at his face with his palms. "Just take them home."

She looks up at him for a moment, preparing to argue, "Are you crazy?" ready to fall from her lips. But the stern, brooding set to his features, the dark on edge glint in his eyes, keeps her quiet. The only words she offers are silently conspiratorial, "What is it?" as she gathers Samantha in her arms.

Dean takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Nothing," he says too fast to be true. "We'll talk at home."

She leans into him, a stabilizing, grounding sort of embrace, even with the toddler wedged in between. And then she leaves, taking her children with her, only Rachel staying behind, refusing to go so long as her sister remains.


	10. Chapter 9 Part 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Part two...there may be a part three, or I might just make the next bit it's own self contained chapter. Don't know. Not that it really matters anyway.

* * *

He peeks his head around the curtain and sees Maya resting against her sister's shoulder, Rachel's long fingers steadily working through the other's wet and tangled curls. They don't speak, don't say a word, and for some reason that only adds to the foreboding sensation growing within Dean's chest.

Reluctantly, after heading back to the waiting area, he pulls out his phone and speed dials Sam, part of him really hoping that his brother won't even answer, this being a bit much to explain. But, of course, he does, sounding tired and drained, completely beat. "Hey," he says in such a pathetic tone it makes Dean want to slam his head into the wall.

For a moment he doesn't respond, unsure of what to say at all, let alone how to say it. He decides to takes the easy way out, avoidance. "How's it going?" he asks, trying to sound casual. "How're things there?"

Sam sighs, long and loud. "I don't know. I think we're gonna have to make a decision soon. He's still on life support, but…" he trails off, something catching his attention. Dean cringes, knowing that he must have heard the _Dr. So-and-So, report to wherever stat. Dr. So-and-So._ "Where are you?" Sam asks, sounding merely curious at first. Then, when he doesn't respond immediately, a more concerned tone floods the line. "Are you in a hospital?"

"Uh," he sputters, "Yeah. But listen, don't worry, okay? Everything's fine."

"Everything's fine?" he asks, voice perking with a panicked sort of interest.

"Yeah, yeah, really. She's okay," he rushes to get out.

"Who's okay? Dean?" He can almost see his little brother's expression, furrowed brows and wide, anxious eyes.

"Maya," he utters simply, only mildly surprised to hear the foreboding silence that follows.

"What happened?" he asks too slow, too clear to be anything other than thinly veiled, barely controlled panic.

"She been acting weird lately?" he asks, partly because he really wants to know, partly just to further stall.

"Dean, what happened?" he repeats, more commanding.

"Nothing, really," he tries, downplaying it with a forced air of nonchalance. "She's fine, really. She just fell, at the park," he finishes, conveniently leaving out the bit about the car.

"Well, how bad was it? I mean, why'd you take her to the hospital if it was nothing?"

Of course, Dean thinks, of course he wouldn't just buy that. Because with their unfortunate expertise in the areas of homemade remedying and their abilities to easily determine what's ER worthy and not – broken arm, sure; busted ribs, eh, hard to say; couple of stitches, break out the sewing kit – there'd be no way Maya would end up here if it were truly _nothing_. "Well," he stutters, collecting his thoughts, forming them into haphazard words. "I didn't really…take her, I mean…the ambulance did."

"Ambulance?" And there again, Dean can just _see_ his brother's face, eyebrows high and cocked in a shocked sort of _explain that please_ way.

"You know how civilians are," he says, term rolling off his tongue without a hint of irony, despite he himself now being one. "They panic. Someone called 911."

"But why?" he inquires, genuinely confused. "Was she bleeding? Is she hurt?"

Dean sighs into the phone, "No, I already told you," but stops mid sentence when he hears Sarah's voice in the background – _Who? Was who bleeding? Who's hurt? Sam?_

In a flash, she's on the other end, "Dean, what's going on?" sounding in a weary and worried tone.

He waits to answer, listening to Sam talking in the background, filling her in. All he chooses to add into the mix is yet another assurance that, "She's okay."

"How okay?" she asks, deep and calm, in a tone identical to that of Rachel's earlier.

"Might have hurt her knee. They did some X-rays, but it's probably just a sprain."

"I want to talk to a doctor," she states simply.

"Yeah, okay, they've been wanting to talk to you." He gives her the number for the hospital, tells her the name of the doctor in charge, and asks to speak to Sam again.

"Seriously man," he starts, Dean cutting him off before another _what happened?_ falls from his lips.

"She accidentally hit John with the soccer ball and freaked out. I mean, really, she flipped. Started running and it was raining, and she wasn't watching where she was going. And she almost got hit by a car. Or maybe did…a little."

"Maybe? A little? Dean, how does someone get _a little _hit by a freakin' car?"

"Well, I don't think she did, and it was in a parking lot so he wasn't going fast anyway. And she's fine," he blurts out in a single breath. Sam doesn't respond, and he takes that to mean that he's thoroughly digested the information, Sammy being the kind of guy who spews out useless question after useless question when things aren't yet sunk in. So he broaches a new topic, calm and sincere and genuinely needing to know, he asks, "What's up with her, man?"

And it isn't until that very moment, when Sam says, in a voice too sad and too lost, "I don't know," that Dean realizes that knot in the pit of his stomach means something after all.

000

It's just a sprain, nothing an ace bandage and some rest won't fix. And though Maya's none too pleased to hear that she'll have to miss out on soccer for a while, she seems downright ecstatic to get the hell out of the hospital – just like any self respecting Winchester would be.

It's early evening by the time they get back, an entire day wasted on cold rain, fat tears and unnecessary medical treatments. So they all try to relax, wind down a bit and forget about the awful events of earlier. Ava puts a movie on for the kids, orders a couple of pizzas and heads upstairs to her husband.

"Sam called," she says, making her way into the bedroom where Dean escaped to immediately after getting the girls through the door. She sits on the bed next to him, hand casually rising to the back of his head, fingers combing through his closely cropped hair, only now beginning to gray. "He should be here in a few hours. Sarah's staying in New York."

He makes a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement and leans against her, shutting his eyes as he breathes in her familiar and soothing scent – vanilla and …something else, something purely Ava.

"They must have given Maya something pretty good," she says, a lighthearted lilt to her voice. "She's already out and the movie's barely been going for five minutes."

"She's a lightweight," he says simply, sleepily. "It's only Roxicet."

Ava remains still and quiet for a moment, completely calm before suddenly shifting gears, dropping her hand from his head and saying, "She's been having nightmares." Dean looks over at her with a confused expression, obviously not following a word she's saying. "When Sam called," she explains, "that's what he told me. She's been having nightmares and they must be pretty bad because they've been keeping her up and her grades have been suffering and she's been way more moody. And she won't talk about them at all."

She takes a breath, then says, slow and serious, "Sam…he's pretty freaked. He thinks they might be…he thinks that she might be…like us. He said he doesn't know what else would cause this, cause her to shut down like this. Because she's not talking to them at all, and really," she goes on, voice gaining speed and hitching up an octave, "she's been awfully quiet with us too. Like last week when I asked her about this boy at school who John said she has the hugest crush on, and all she did was shrug, didn't want to talk about it, or gush, or even deny it, which any ten-year-old would so do. She just shrugged." She stops for a beat, glancing at Dean, scary contemplative look on his face. "I don't know," she starts again, "maybe he's just being paranoid. He's got to be paranoid, right? I mean, something's obviously wrong, and I'm not saying the alternative is exactly great, you know, trauma or something. I'm not saying that I want it to be that, her having nightmares about something that happened to her that we just don't know about. God, that'd be awful. But this? It can't be. Right?"

She waits for an answer, patience being a learned necessity when dealing with Dean Winchester, and watches as his fists jam into his shut eyes, hands then slowly rising up to his scalp as though he's rubbing away all that was just said. "Jesus Christ," he mutters absently.

He rises from the bed and she follows, heavy on his heels, practically waiving her arms around in nervous excitement as she pleads, "It can't be though, right? The demon's dead and gone, so…it's not that. Right?"

He turns swiftly to face her, almost knocking her over, not realizing she was that close behind him. Grabbing her arms to steady her, he says, seemingly strong and sure, "No. It's not that."

000

Maya sleeps through the movie, head volleying back and forth between John and Rachel's shoulders. She doesn't eat any pizza, doesn't have any soda – a longed for treat for the girls, Sam and Sarah, well, Sarah really, being rather strict when it comes to sugar in their diets. She doesn't want to wait up for her dad to arrive. And she sure as hell doesn't want to talk about anything.

To be fair, Dean doesn't really want to talk right now either, too afraid of what he might hear. He puts her to bed around eight, Ava doing nothing more than offering up the obligatory, "Love you, goodnight," as they ascend the stairs. No _sweet dreams_ or _sleep well_, or one of many ridiculous jokes about bed bugs and remembering to call the exterminator.

"How's your knee?" he asks when she returns to the guest room – pink and flowery with two twin beds that have been made up for the girls since forever – after changing into a T-shirt to sleep in and brushing her teeth.

She hobbles over to the bed, covers already drawn back for her, and eases herself in before saying, "Fine."

"Doesn't hurt?"

She shakes her head, leaning back into the pillow.

"You need anything?"

"No," she says with a yawn. And though he wants to ask, wants to _make_ himself ask, the troubling questions – _You having nightmares? What are they about? You ever see a man with yellow eyes?_ – all he does is pull up the covers, plant a kiss on her head, and breathe a small sigh of relief.

Sam gets in around ten, takes a cab to their house and tells Dean to go pay the driver – him having left all the money with Sarah – while he gives Rache a hug, asks her what she's watching, and says, in typical Dad fashion, "Five more minutes, then go to bed."

She starts to complain, point out that it's Saturday and she's _fourteen_ for crying out loud, and…but Ava takes over, saying, barely even to him, eyes steadily transfixed on the TV, "It's almost over. Don't worry about it. Now move," and shoos him away.

Dean's sharp and terse when he comes back in, beckoning Sam into the kitchen where he grabs two beers, thunking one in front of his brother, and says, "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

And, of course, Sam knows what he's talking about, knows that Ava told him what he had said to her on the phone. So when, "Tell you what?" tumbles from his mouth, it's with a bite as opposed to bafflement.

"Tell me what?" he repeats through tight angry lips. Then, in a low vicious whisper, "Tell me that your daughter might have some kind of connection to a demon we killed fifteen years ago."

Sam grits his teeth, speaks in an equally quiet and wrathful tone. "She is _not_ connected to any demon."

"But she's having psychic visions?" he asks with a disgusted smirk before raising the beer to his lips.

"I never said – "

"Then what are the dreams about, huh?" he interrupts, struggling to keep his voice low enough that the others in the house don't hear.

Sam drops his eyes, fiddles with the label on his bottle before saying simply, "I don't know. She won't talk to me."

Dean leans back in his chair, trying to appear casual even through thickly tense and knotted muscles. "Well, you better as hell figure out a way to get her to talk, Sammy, because this is serious."

"You think I don't know that?" he nearly shouts, only lowering his voice upon catching Dean's eyes flashing up towards the door, a questioning, _did they hear?_ look. "She's _my_ daughter, Dean," he says in a low hiss.

Eyes flashing a brief display of hurt, Dean responds with, "It's not just about her and you know it," forgoing the lecture his heart yearns to give, about family being family no matter what and him not being capable of loving Maya more, even if she were his own.

"Bullshit," he challenges, eyes mere slits.

Dean leans forward, whisper creeping out of his throat again. "You should have told me."

"What's the matter, Dean? You worried if this happens to my kid it might happen to one of yours too?" he asks, rising swiftly.

"Hey, fuck you!" His voice booms, echoing through the kitchen, and he's sure Ava and Rachel heard, being just in the next room, but he can't quite bring himself to care. "I love that kid and you know it. And for the record, Sam," he says, voice becoming more steady and controlled, "I have every right to be worried about my own kids and about what could happen to them. Doesn't mean I care any less about yours."

Sam turns his back, silently pacing for a moment, thinking…about what to say, what to do. "She in bed?" he asks meekly, still refusing to face his brother.

"Yeah."

000

The Winchesters had always prided themselves on being stealthy, a learned and necessary trait among men in their profession. And it's really rather ironic, and astounding, that they can manage to pull it off so well, what with one of them being an oblivious, often times bumbling child, and the other a relatively uncoordinated, huge footed giant. But they manage, when it comes down to it, to loom around undetected.

Which is how Sam is able to glimpse from the hall the two ten-year-olds nose to nose in bed, hear snippets of their low and rumbling whispers, without either being the wiser.

"I won't tell anybody," John says, child's sincerity coupling his words.

"I know," Maya responds in her typical know-it-all fashion.

But no matter how sensitive the boy often is, his cousin's commonly hurtful tones no longer phase him, being old enough and wise enough to see them for what they are, a mere cover. He goes on, "I tell you everything."

And she rolls over, turns her back on him as she says, "Yeah, well, you're a big girl."

"You sound like my dad," he mutters, flipping onto his back and crossing his arms beneath his head.

"Your dad doesn't call you a girl," she says plainly. Then, with a smirk and a giggle, "Not to your face anyway."

He throws his hip into her, nudging in a playful chide, and her giggles increase, if only for a moment, before fading to nothing. "He says it to _your_ dad," he quips, just to fill the silence.

Sam smiles to himself, finding that habit of Dean's almost endearing through the eyes of a child.

The silence in the frilly little guest room, and by extension that spilling out into the hall, grows greater, as absence of noise always seems to do when one strains to hear for too long. He thinks of his wife, trapped in a world of awful endless noise, _whoosh_ of the ventilator and _beep_s of monitors. Ever present ICU nurses and aides whispering around every corner. The heady absence of her father's voice even as he lies in bed beside her. He hadn't wanted to leave her back in New York, hadn't wanted to abandon her to her own suffering and her own heart wrenching decisions. And truthfully, he hadn't really needed to either, both agreeing that Maya would be safe and well cared for with Dean and Ava, no matter what the trouble was.

But there was something all too familiar about their situation, the morose looking doctors and deathly still body in bed, being run by machines, kept alive by nothing more than desperate hopes and prayers. Sam hadn't been good in hospitals since his father's death some fifteen years before. Every room he enters, ever corner he turns, eliciting a sickening roiling in his gut, an intense apprehension that maybe, just maybe, someone he loves will inexplicably laid out before him. Dead. Gone. Left, without a word.

He told Sarah he was just worried about their daughter – and he was, is. But he didn't tell her the real reason for insisting on leaving. He couldn't bear to be reminded of losing his father, couldn't bear to watch her lose hers.

He sighs softly, turning to leave, not wanting to disturb the children he was sure were on their way to sleep. But he stops suddenly when Maya's voice reaches him, a soft and delicate whisper cutting through the silence of the night. "Sometimes I have dreams."

John doesn't respond, but Sam can hear a heavy shifting on the bed. Peering in once more, he sees his nephew turn to face Maya's back, a small hand grasping her shoulder lightly.

She knows what the gesture means. Calm and caring support, no overly interested, invasive demands, no hauntingly curious sort of desire. Just support. And love. "_Bad_ dreams," she goes on, talking not being a problem when no one requires her to do so.

"Oh," he says simply. "Well, dreams can't hurt you," he utters, repeating the words his father had shared with him so many times before. It never even occurs to him that his mother had never made that claim, never even agreed with the sentiment when his father shared the advice.

She scoffs in response, a harsh _psh_ that hangs heavily in the air.

"Maybe you watch too many scary movies," he tries, knowing full well the inclination of his cousin to do certain things she knows she shouldn't – view a film deemed inappropriate for kids her age, climb a tree she's forbidden from approaching, stealing Rachel's makeup despite being told she's not old enough to wear any – all just to prove she can.

But she shakes her head, pillowcase crinkling beneath her as she says, "No, that's not it. It's not like that."

And he asks, "What do you mean?" Because the few times he had really bad nightmares, movies were most often the cause – typically movies _she'd_ made him watch. Except of course for the Alice in Wonderland fiasco, his mother sharing with him her favorite book in nighttime installments that sent his sleeping mind into panic-filled delusions. He dreamt of creepy talking rabbits for months afterward, wondering, if one could tell time, a task even he had yet to master, what else could bunnies be capable of?

"They're not about movies," she says, voice low and soft but with a biting edge. "Or monsters. Not really." Because, though there often were monsters in her dreams, they rarely terrified her most.

"What are they about then?" John asks in innocent singsong.

Outside the room, Sam stops breathing, wills his heart to stop pounding in his ears so he can better hear her answer.

It takes her a minute to respond, the long moment spent anxiously deciding if she really wants to put this out there or not. But of everyone she's ever known, John's the least judgmental, and perhaps the most trustworthy. So… "Once," she breathes out slowly, "I saw my dad die."

John sighs deeply. "That sucks."

"He got stabbed," she goes on, realizing that, now that it's out there, she may not be able to stop the details from flowing. "Uncle Dean was there. And some old guy, he chased after the man who did it." She stops abruptly, surprised at how easily the words came out, frightened at how clearly she's able to recall.

John gives her shoulder a quick squeeze, says, "But that won't happen," in an attempt to comfort her, soothe her ragged breathing, her too quick pulse.

"No," she replies, barely a whisper, almost lost amid choking tears. "It already did."


	11. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Still own nothing

* * *

Sam didn't sleep at all, running his tally of sleepless nights up to three in a row, maybe four; he was too tired to recall. Sometime around two Dean ordered him to go lie down, get some rest, as though he actually thought it were possible, actually thought it was some sort of option. But in the dark, in the silence that enveloped him as he crashed out on the too small living room couch, his mind spun even faster and more out of control.

Was it possible he had misheard, misunderstood? Maybe they were just blowing things out of proportion, he had, after all, witnessed a conversation between _children_. Everything spoken by ten-year-olds under the cloak of night had to be taken with a grain of salt.

And really, what was so awful about what he heard? Kids sometimes had dreams about parents dying, it was sad and unfortunate, but not out of the ordinary. And what of her comment about it already having happened? It was odd, certainly, but was it so strange that it should have sent shivers throughout his entire body like it did? He was probably just paranoid, too much time looking into such mysteries making it easy to misidentify them in the everyday.

But he'd also spent too much of his life following his gut, letting it guide him just as his father and brother had always told him to do. _You think too much, Sammy. Quit thinking, just follow your instincts._ Only problem was, his instincts told him that if he could see the future, it might not be so strange for him to have a daughter who sees the past. And why the hell would he want to hear that?

Dean had wanted to get to the bottom of things right away, ready to run up the stairs and pull the kids from their slumber the moment Sam finished relaying all he'd heard. Interrogate them both, that was his plan, question mercilessly until John spilled all that he knew and Maya broke down and revealed the rest.

"I'm telling you," he said, punching an open palm repeatedly as he paced the length of the kitchen, "we can break them."

"No," was all Sam said, callused fingertips pressing harshly into his temples. He wanted the truth just as much as Dean, more actually, but they were going to have to be tactful about this. Sam knew his brother, and he knew his daughter, better than anyone. There was no way Dean could ever _break _her.

He seemed to recognize that fact too, giving up on his idea rather easily after Sam's simple dismissal. Plan number two was better anyway, or so he thought. "I'm calling Bobby."

The low rumble of his brother's voice held both a promise and a threat in those words. Because Bobby was a friend, always would be. And though he hadn't seen Maya since she was two, coming to visit just after Michael's birth, he would, undoubtedly do anything for her, for any of the Winchesters. But involving him meant admitting that this was something that required his special sort of expertise.

"No," Sam said, head shaking back and forth in slow and measured movements. "I don't want people knowing – "

But Dean cut him off with, "Bobby's not _people_," a sharp and insulted bite flavoring his words.

Sam merely sighs. "I don't want anyone knowing until _we_ know…what's going on."

And then Ava, sensing an argument about to erupt, knowing the telltale signs of Winchester stewing, spoke up for the first time since the conversation began. "He could help though. I mean, he'd know…if the demon was back, or if it even could be back. He might know, right?"

Sam looked coldly at her before saying, "It's not. And it can't."

When Dean spoke next it was with an odd sort of sincerity that his brother, or anyone for that matter, was rarely privy to. "You're only saying that because you want it to be true. Doesn't mean it is."

And though Sam wanted, desperately, to argue, with words or even fists – because _how fucking dare he_ – he couldn't. It was just that terribly true.

So Dean called Bobby, it being barely past midnight, and promptly got bitched out by the old _early to bed, early to rise_ man. Until he finished explaining the reason for his call, a family emergency, an awful possibility. And Bobby gruffly apologized, said he was on it, and slammed down the phone in anxious excitement as he went to begin the age old task of researching.

Little more was discussed that night, not much else to say. And a general plan was hatched involving Dean spiriting the rest of the kids away in the morning, leaving Sam and Ava – because hey, she certainly had experience in the weird ass dreams field – to talk to Maya. And hopefully get her to talk back.

They went to bed finally, all three exhausted and anxious, fatigue and restless energy and worry coursing through them in a _stay awake _cocktail. Sam rose at least five times throughout the remainder of the night to peek in on the kids, all of them at different times. And he stumbled across Dean once, the two crossing paths in front of Michael's bedroom door, saying nothing to one another, only nodding as each continued on his way.

Dean might have only gotten up twice to check the kids that night, but he listened intently to every one of Sam's heavy footsteps and the light creaking of doors.

Morning came and somehow managed to surprise them all, despite having seen the sun rise from off in the periphery. Dean roused the kids, told them they were headed to the park – not the same one as yesterday, mind you. Dean may never return there again. "Maya doesn't feel up to coming," he told them as he quickly put together a picnic breakfast. "But she said we should have fun without her." It was a clear lie, Maya never having encouraged anyone to have fun without her in the past, and all the kids knew it, with the possible exception of Samantha who was still working on grasping even the meaning of _lie_. But no one said a word, figuring if _Dean_ would lie to them, he must have a good reason.

And so here they are, Sam and Ava, all alone, sitting in awkward silence as they sip quietly on too strong coffee – just how Dean always makes it – with a cold, untouched breakfast leadening the plates before them. When Maya finally comes downstairs, a steady and odd thumping as she hops and hobbles her way, they're both pretty buzzed.

"Hey, kiddo," Sam says, trying to still his shaking hands as he holds them out to her for a hug. "How's the leg?"

She shrugs, approaching him slowly as she asks, rather accusingly, "Where is everybody?"

He pulls her into his lap, never mind her being too old or too big or too _not in the mood_ to be cuddled by Dad. "They took off for a little while," he says steadily.

She perches herself on his knee, both of her feet holding firmly to the kitchen's tile as though this spot afforded more independence, made her less of a child. "Mom didn't come with you?" she asks, turning to look him in the eye, a challenge of some sort threading her words.

"Nope," he responds, unable to be intimidated by a look he created, especially when offered up by a _person_ he created. "She stayed back in New York with Grandpa."

Maya nods slowly, narrows her eyes, and asks pointedly, "Is he gonna die?"

A tiny sort of squeal emerges from Ava, a surprised almost hiccup that she attempt to cover with an all too forced and fake cough.

But Sam's not taken aback at all by her inquiry, he knows exactly what she's trying to do. Because no matter what her grades might reflect, Maya's a bright girl, smart and intuitive, and she knows exactly what all this is about. And this, asking about her grandfather instead of inquiring as to why the three of them were oddly gathered together today, is nothing but an evasive action.

"He's pretty sick, My." He eyes her for a minute, eager to see if she'd really rather talk about this than that _other thing_. When she nods her head and looks him sincerely in the face, a plea for truth, he says to her, "Yeah, baby, he probably will."

She nods solemnly, saying nothing, and they all sit together in silence. She's no longer changing the subject, now wholeheartedly avoiding. So Sam tries for the direct route, figuring, no time like the present. "Maya," he begins, deep and serious tone that says simply, _we need to talk_. But he doesn't go on, can't quite bring himself to say what needs to be said.

"What?" she asks impatiently, stiffening even further as though preparing to bolt.

But before Sam can respond, utter something that would almost certainly elicit a dramatic roll of the eyes from his daughter, possibly a hobbled stomp out of the room – which would only further devolve into a shout-filled power struggle between the two – Ava jumps in with, "You know how your dad and I met?"

Both Maya and Sam turn to look at her, pure confusion on one face, a mixture of _where is this going?_ and relief on the other. "No," Maya responds cautiously. No, she had no idea how they met, never thought about it before, never really cared.

"We knew each other before I met your Uncle Dean. That's _how_ I met him actually, Dean that is. Well, it was more complicated than that. But still…through Sam." She takes a breath, has that obvious uncomfortable look about her, jittery hands and ping-pong eyes flashing about the room. She doesn't look at either of them when she says, fast and high pitched, "I had a dream that he got blown up, but I didn't know who he was. I mean, it was Sam, but I didn't know Sam. But I saw a hotel name on the piece of paper he had in my dream, so I went there and found him and told him and…he didn't blow up." She finishes with a long held breath and a half hearted, "Yay."

There's a moment where all three sit in silence, both girls averting their eyes from everything with a pulse, Sam silently watching them, gaze bouncing back and forth, hoping one might speak. The closest they get is a firm headshake from Maya as all the just released information seems to rattle in her skull.

"She thought I'd think she was nuts," he starts slowly, hesitantly. "But I didn't. I couldn't think she was crazy anymore than I was."

Maya's mouth all but drops open, no sound coming forth, no questions or comments or even _you're kidding me_ laughter.

"We never wanted you to know," Ava says softly, her calm mother tone dripping with soothing notes. "We never thought you'd _need_ to know."

"About a lot of things," Sam interjects, sharing a sad and knowing gaze with Ava. "There's so much in this world, baby," he mutters, returning his attention to Maya, pulling her closer in his lap and almost whispering into her hair. "So much…bad stuff. All we ever want is to keep you safe and away from all that."

He pulls back suddenly and twists the girl around so that they're face to face. And he takes a moment to look at her, really look at her, to see the baby fat cheeks that he always thinks of when he pictures her, the same ones that have all but disappeared over the last couple of years. And he notices the slight scar at her hairline that she got when a food fight went bad at age four, Rachel losing control of her fork and sending it hurtling towards her sister's head.

Sam has a scar nearly identical to his daughter's. It's from a pissed off spirit outside of Albuquerque when he was ten. Her age now.

He looks at her and for the first time he sees himself. Because, to him, the girls were always so like Sarah, with long dark waves and big round eyes, and smiles, especially in Rachel's case, that light up everything, everyone, within a ten mile radius. But they're also both so tall and gangly, a _Sam trait_ as Dean's always pointed out. And while their large light eyes always reminded him most of his wife, their coloring, that often-changing hazel, nature's own mood ring, is pure Winchester, no doubt.

But it's something more that he sees right now, something deep and bold and painfully true. He's managed to pass something down to her that he's never even fully acknowledged within himself. And already he can see what a burden it has become. Already he can make out the subtle changes in her face, the aging of her eyes, hardening of her pink bowed lips, a never smiling line.

He looks her straight on and in a voice so sad and scared even _he_ finds it unrecognizable, he says, "But I can't."

They do their best to explain their dreams, when they began, what happened, how they dealt with them. And they leave out all they parts they think she doesn't need to hear, being too young to know, or simply too naïve of their world to understand. Because to explain in depth the part a demon played in their nightmares, his plans for pitting them against the world, may be a bit much for a child who has only now learned that certain psychic phenomena may be real.

But they relay the important parts, the fact that it doesn't make you a freak to have weird dreams, and you're not alone in being scared or just plain weirded out by them. The fact that it helps to talk, sometimes it's absolutely _necessary_ to talk about them.

She listens closely, carefully, to every word they say, speaking not once herself. And she tries to stay strong, take in all their words and interpret them analytically. Not emotionally. Not…personally. But she's still sitting on her daddy's lap, though surely his legs have gone numb by now, and he's got a huge strong hand on her back, working to rub away all her troubles. And his voice is low and rumbling and comforting, so close to her ear. And her aunt's kitchen smells of french toast and fresh flowers and a hint of motor oil wafting in from beneath the door to the garage.

And she loves it all, should be soothed and placated by it all, just like she's always been before. But it's not the same now, and she fears, she _knows_, that it never will be again.

It doesn't really occur to her that the conversation has ended, or that, maybe, she hadn't been paying as close attention as she thought, until a foreign silence is broken with her father's voice, "Maya," an unrealized stillness shattered by his thumb pulling a hot salty tear from her cheek. She looks up and sniffles, automatically scrubbing away all evidence of her weakness with tightly clenched fists. "Maya," he says again, a bit of a command to his voice. "We need to know what your dreams are about."

She says nothing, too busy thinking up ways to be convincing in her denial. Because, maybe she wasn't alone in this, maybe her father and aunt, and hell, millions of other people, all had weird dreams too. But she didn't buy the part about them not being freaks. It that were true, then how come they'd never shared their little secret before? It was something to be ashamed of, that much was obvious.

"If you don't want to tell us everything right now, or ever even," Ava says lightly, "that's fine. You don't have to."

Her father nods, hand still tracing circles on her back. "That's right. But," he says, drawing in a deep breath and leveling his voice, "there are certain things we need to know." She looks up at him and prepares to say the only thing that's really come to mind thus far, _I'm not like you_, when he asks, slow and deep, "Have you ever seen a man with yellow eyes?"

And she can't help it, so taken aback by his inquiry. _How does he know? How could he possibly know? _She gasps audibly.

Ava rises from her seat, a series of, "Oh, God"'s trailing after and all around her as she paces in circles.

Sam takes a hold of Maya's shoulders, rougher than he probably means to, and twists her towards him, looks her in they eye while saying, "Listen to me, Maya. You have to tell me everything that happened with him. You understand?" Her father's eyes are so wide, voice so serious, that she doesn't know what to do. Her mind goes blank with fear and panic. "Maya," Sam says, unspoken order to respond. When she doesn't he shoves her from his lap, stands her up before him, hands still gripping her shoulders as he gives a firm shake. "Maya!"

"Sam, stop it," Ava shouts from behind. "You're scaring her."

And hee wants to say _she's scaring me_. He wants to break her down like an unruly witness, no judge around to hold him in contempt. But she's a little girl. She's _his_ little girl. And as quickly as the unruly lawyer, or the panicked hunter, first appeared, he retreats, leaving only the father in his wake.

Sam pulls his daughter close, hugs her fiercely to his chest as though he's so sorry, so scared, and never letting go. _Don't worry, I'll never let you go._ And he whispers in her ear, voice hitching even in the hushed tone, "What did he say to you, baby?"

He doesn't release her, doesn't so much as loosen his hold, which actually makes it easier for her to speak, muffled words tumbling with ease into the closed off space between her and her father, only for him. He'll keep her secrets safe, his embrace promises that much. "He said I belong to him," she murmurs softly, repeating the words from her first meeting with the mysterious glowing eyed man. "And he said you were bad, and a traitor. And he showed me things…lots of things."

"What kinds of things?" he breathes unsteadily into her hair.

She hesitates, closes her eyes so tight that no more tears can leak through. "You hurt people. You and Uncle Dean and Aunt Ava. And you hurt…things. And you died."

He doesn't respond, only holds her tighter, a physical confirmation that, _no, I'm dead, I'm right here._ But he has to know, if what she saw was real or just a demonic trick. So he asks hesitantly, "How did I die?" hoping for anything other than the truth.

Her voice breaks when she says, "A man stabbed you."

"Where?" he asks urgently.

"In the back," she sobs against him.

He shakes his head slightly, disturbed by the detail. "No, I mean, where was I?"

She snuffles before straightening up a bit, pulling away, if only a little. "I don't know. It was dark." She gazes up at him and says simply, as though it might explain it all, as though places in her world were defined by the people in them more than the location itself, "Uncle Dean was there. And another guy, old guy."

"Bobby?" Sam asks, not realizing that there'd be no way of her knowing, not having seen Bobby since she was a toddler. She shrugs in response and he asks, "Who stabbed me? What did he look like?"

From behind his shoulder Ava issues a nervous, "Sam." Because, while she might not recall this particular event, that day as a whole is truly the last one she wants to relive, especially through the eyes of a little girl she loves so dearly.

Maya shrugs again, a nonverbal repeat of, _I don't know. It was dark._ But she does follow it up with a meek, "He was black," which is all the unfortunate confirmation Sam needs.

"Okay," he says absently, reaching out and brushing back her hair with his fingertips, tucking the strands behind her ear. It's a gesture usually only her mother makes, and all at once she's hit with a strong and violent yearning for her, like that she hasn't felt in years.

Tears begin to run down her cheeks again, filling in the dried lines left by the previous onslaught, and she asks, choking on the words, "When's Mommy coming home?"

She hasn't called Sarah _mommy_ in so long, being too old for such a thing, and Sam can't help but think about how horrified and overjoyed his wife would be to hear that from her daughter's mouth. Because so often she feels superfluous when it comes to Maya, like the girl neither wants nor needs her at all. And while they both know that isn't the case, it hurts. But her asking for Mommy now, while being proof that she's loved and needed no matter what, is also a clear indication of just how fragile she really is. Fragile, if not already broken.

"Soon," he says simply, wiping away the tears. Then, taking hold of her chin and turning it towards him, he asks what he hopes will be the final question for a while, wanting nothing more than to stop this awful inquisition and hold his little girl until she stops crying, feed her cookies and spout lame jokes until she's finally able to smile. "What else did he say? The man with the yellow eyes, did he do or say anything else?"

She nods and sniffles, reaches up to rub her red and weary eyes.

"What?"

"He said he'd make them stop, if I helped him. He'd make the dreams stop."

"Help him with what?" he asks quickly, brows knitting nervously together.

She shakes her head, "I don't know. He didn't say," and falls into her father's arms once more.

* * *

There, now they know. 


	12. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Just a little bit of humor to quell all the recent angst.

* * *

Don't they have enough to deal with right now? Don't both he and Ava have enough sleepless nights and silent conversations about _important_ things – Maya, the kids in general, the demon?

No, apparently not. Apparently life doesn't work that way when you're a parent. There's no ability to slow things down, no time to stop and think, no breaks. Ever. Oh, sure he loves his kids, more than life itself. But that doesn't mean that he doesn't often wonder just where that _life itself_ escaped to, and why he chose to replace it with all of this...nonsense.

"It's a rodent," he says pitifully, never too proud to resort to whining.

Ava shoots him a glare, one of a rare and serious nature, a _don't argue with me, I'm not in the mood_ look. "It's a rabbit."

"That's what I said," he mutters, unfazed by her _drop it_ tone. Because if he's willing to pull out the childish whining as a tactic, he might as well go all the way into insolent arguing. "Rabbit's a rodent."

"A rat is a rodent," she retorts, not taking her eyes off the pile of laundry in front of her.

Dean, hanging back and leaning up against the wall, makes no move to help her fold, just sulkily watching. He scoffs. "A rabbit's just a rat with bigger ears and a fluffy tail."

And there's that _look_ again, along with a pair of rolled up socks aimed at his head.

"Hey," he protests, dodging the sock missile. "Look, I get that they want another pet. But c'mon, rabbit's for eating, not…petting."

She turns to him slowly and says with tired sincerity, "It's his birthday. And he wants a rabbit. It's not like he's asking for a pony or a ride on a space shuttle or something. Just a tiny, little bunny to love and cuddle. I want my son to have what he wants."

Dean's defeated, right then and there, and he knows it. They'll be getting a rabbit. A disgusting, big toothed poop machine that _he'll_ end up having to feed and clean and care for. But he's gotta try, so in one last futile attempt, "I thought we agreed no more pets," he says, arms folded stiffly across his chest.

"When did we ever say that?"

He shrugs, knowing it was never actually _said_, only implied. And even then, not by her or between the two of them, but within his own heart. Because taking old Murphy in a couple years back – Murphy, best mutt ever – and having him put down, looking into those big brown eyes that had greeted him every morning, bid him goodbye and promised to guard his family every time he walked out the door, was one of the most painful things he'd ever had to go through. And with Dean Winchester, that's saying a lot.

He'd promised himself then, never again.

She turns her back on him, continues with her laundry – no need to argue, she's already won and she knows it – and he sighs behind her, falls into that immature tone when he says, "Isn't Samantha enough for him? I mean, she's practically a pet. Not like she does much other than eat, crap, and sit around looking cute."

"Dean," she shrieks, turning on him, feigning offense while trying not to laugh

"What? Come on. She already knows how to fetch."

Another warning, "Dean," falls from her lips among a viscous and highly amused grin.

He moves towards her, wrapping his arms around her and dropping his forehead to hers, locking eyes with his wife. "We can find some cute little bunny ears, slap on a fuzzy tail. Hey, she even likes carrots."

"First of all…no," she says, twisting in his grip, letting him continue to hold her firmly around the waist even as she returns to folding laundry. "Second of all, what happens if she likes it? We'll have a kid who'll grow up and dream of being one Hugh Heffner's girlfriends."

"She'd be well cared for. You seen that mansion?"

"Dean," she chides again, smile bursting on her face as an elbow hits him in the side. He doesn't even wince.

Two days later they're celebrating Michael's birthday with a trip to the pet store, where, "That one! That one! That one," resounds in unsettling shrieks. He chooses the scraggliest, ugliest – _What about that one, baby? Isn't he pretty?_ – most wide toothed, monstrous – _He's threatening me with his beady little eyes_ – _rabbit_ ever.

He names it Mike, never mind the kid at the counter telling them it's a girl.

A week and a half later, Mike has three little babies – all named Mike Jr., even though, "Shouldn't they be Mike the Third? If you're the first, Mike's second…"

But there's no reasoning with the boy. He promptly shushes his mother and informs her, "Babies need quiet," as though she hadn't raised three babies of her own already.

Mike is mean. Mean as shit. She was before the babies were born, and she's even worse now. The Hormonal Bitch, Dean dubs her. As in, "Where the hell is that Hormonal Bitch?" as he crawls around on the floor searching for her after the kids lose interest and forget to put her away. Or, "Swear to God, if that Hormonal Bitch bites the hand that feeds her one more time, I'm gonna break her fuzzy little neck and turn her into stew."

"You don't know how to cook," is Ava's only repose to that one, having no real desire to actually _defend_ Mike. The Hormonal Bitch had nailed her one too many times as well.

"Shove a rabbit in a pot of boiling water," he says through a shrug, washing his bloody fingertip. "What's to know?"

Rachel decides she wants one of Mike's babies, much to Sam's dismay. Because, maybe it's just a Winchester thing, but, a rodent? Seriously? She picks the cutest one, with white tipped ears and big gray splotches dancing on his back. And she promises to take really good care of him – which Michael knows she will, being the oldest and therefore the most trustworthy. And she even agrees to keep calling him Mike Jr., though at home he's referred to as Fluffy, or Senior Fluffykins to be more precise – blame it on too many cartoon doodles in Spanish class.

But the other two Mike Jr.'s are to be brought back to the pet store just as soon as they're weaned. It's a guarantee they offer with all small animal purchases, the little whores apparently getting knocked up all the time, breeding like wildfire, breeding like…well, bunnies.

Michael screams and pleads for his _babies_, whom he's come to love, swearing he'll clean all the cages, everyday, and make sure they have fresh food and water, also everyday. And he'll keep Samantha away from them, no more poking, prodding little fingers jutting through the cage until they're bit and bleeding. And he'll use his own allowance to pay for all of their toys, he'll even share his own, which he'd already been doing, just not with _his own_, several of John's matchbox cars and Sammy's old teething rings, littering the bottom of the rabbit cage.

"No," Dean tells him, quick and sharp, putting his foot down for the first time since…well, ever. He has no choice. Cartoon character Band-Aids already adorn nearly every one of his fingers, battle wounds from having to do all the things Michael claims he can, and will, do threefold. Not gonna happen. He'd do anything for his son. Just not this.

Wrestling the babies away from their mother is no easy task, Mike being none too pleased about her brood being stolen. They've all gotten them out before, handled and played with, cuddled and snuggled, each of the babies. But this time she seems to know something's up and she's having none of it. Michael screams when Dean flings the Hormonal Bitch into the side of the cage after she charges him, teeth and nails both bared. And he gathers her up – him being the only person she won't bite, never has – and he tells her it's okay, they're all going to good homes.

"That's right," Ava says, patting him on the shoulder in that _so proud_ way.

"And you can come over and visit us anytime," Rachel says to both Michael and Mike as she cuddles Fluffy close.

He smiles and nods, but his heart's not in it, eyes glistening with tears as his babies are put into boxes and sent away. He doesn't go to the pet store to see them off, just stays at home with Mike, who sits in her cage and screams.

She seems to figure out, after only about an hour, that her babies aren't coming back, and, oh well, _que sera, sera_. She goes about her business, eating and chewing and wriggling her little rabbit nose as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

It takes Michael a good five days to get over the trauma as well as she does, which is about four and a half days longer than Dean and Ava expected.

But things are okay for a while, even good. Mike gets a little less nippy. Michael claims to love his father again, forgetting all about why he hated him for almost a week. Sammy stops sticking her fingers places they don't belong…or at least she stops sticking them in Mike's cage.

Even outside their little pet travails, the world seems a bit brighter than it's been in months. John places second in the fourth grade spelling bee. Rachel gets asked out by a boy for the first time, and to everyone's delight, turns him down immediately. Sam wins the big case he's been working on forever. And with some help from a friend, Maya finally starts sleeping again, even starts _smiling_ again, on occasion.

But clearly, something had to give, complacency always being punished with tragedy. Dean gets up one morning and, before he's even had a drop of coffee to drink, he notices Mike's open cage, the Hormonal Bitch nowhere to be seen.

He searches high and low – how a rabbit would get into the top cabinets he has no idea, but better safe than sorry – peering into pantries and closets, on his hands and knees looking under tables and chairs, couches and armoires. A good twenty, thirty minutes go by and still no sign of her. He even calls out quietly, so as not to wake the kids, "Mike. Mike. Come here and show yourself you blood sucking little bitch." But all to no avail.

When Ava gets out of the shower, finds her husband hunched over on the floor, spitting profanity under their couch, she knows exactly what happened. "Oh, no," she utters absently, turning on a heel and racing back up the stairs.

Dean slams his head, hard, on the couch as he rises to ask her, "What?" – which is promptly replaced by a, "Son of a bitch," from the throb in his skull. But he's cut off by a horrendous scream, shrill and loud and powerful, like only his eight-year-old could produce.

It's awful, truly, truly awful. And the only thing that keeps him from laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, is his little boy's sobs as he clings to his mother, a giant stiff mound of fur gripped tightly in his hand.

He'd been asking for weeks if Mike could sleep with him at night, and the answer was always no. Because it was weird and unsanitary, and she might get lost, or get…smothered. But he'd been sneaking her up anyway, three times last week, Ava catching him after goodnight kisses and ordering him to march that animal back down stairs before his father found out.

Last night she didn't even check, up late on the phone with Sam, discussing things she had no desire to discuss. It was after twelve when she went to bed, ready to fall into some sort of sleep and leave the day behind her. Too much was on her mind to think, or care, about whether or not there was a bunny in her son's bed.

He had rolled over on her in his sleep, smothered her dead. "Maybe even broke her neck," Dean sniggers into the phone later. "Hard to tell."

"Dude," his brother replies on the other line, "it's not funny."

And Dean knows it's not, he really does. But he's always had difficulty with emotional situations, nervous laughter popping up out of the blue. And besides, he tried to control himself, really, but when he says the words out loud, even thinks them clearly in his head, "My son rolled over on his best friend last night, squashed her like a bug," he can't help but be morbidly amused.

"What was he doing with it in his bed, anyway?" Sam asks.

"I don't know. He knows he's not allowed to sneak chicks up to his room until he's at least fourteen."

He can almost _hear_ Sam's eye rolling head shake on the other end. "First of all, man," he says very slowly, "I have a daughter who's fourteen, so I better never hear you give that as an age of consent again."

"Good point," he cedes, waiting for the rest.

"Second of all," Sam begins before hesitating. He goes silent for a moment, then lets out a long sigh, amusement lighting his words, "Seriously, dude. That's fucked up." He laughs briefly, before covering it with a cough, an obvious hint that someone's entered the room. He's suddenly somber when he says, "So are you getting another rabbit?"

"Hell no," he scoffs.

"You sure? I can make you a great deal on Senior Fluffykins," he says, his line of the phone quickly being lost to Rachel's indignant, "Daaaaaaaaaad."

"Senior who now?" he asks, still hearing his niece in the background as she whines something to the effect of, _he's family, you're required to love him_.

Sam laughs off an _ow_, presumably following a much deserved slap from his daughter – cracks about family pets equaling family dinner can do that – and says, correcting himself for his brother, "Mike Jr."

"Ah, yeah. No. He's all yours, buddy boy."

"Gee, thanks," he says with genuine sarcasm. Then, "Seriously though," making Dean sigh in awful anticipation, because he just knows what's coming next. "Michael loves animals."

"I know that, Sam," he says, impatience leadening his words.

"What about a hamster or something?" he tries for his nephew.

"No more rodents."

"Goldfish?"

"Die too fast," he shoots down. "I'm not gathering the whole family around the toilet for a funeral every other week."

"Well then, what about another dog?" he asks, words ringing with encouragement. "You loved Murphy, man."

He scoffs as though it's the stupidest comment in the world. "Of course I loved Murph. But he was one of a kind. Never find another dog like that, and I don't want to waste my time trying."

"Dude," Sam _tsk_s into the phone, "you gotta think of your kids here."

"Sammy," he lets out, a low and warning rumble.

"You gotta think of _me_," he says quickly. "I hate that little big eared rat running all over my house, shitting on my floor. And if you don't get something else to occupy Michael, he'll be over here all the time, taking that thing out every damn day, letting it run loose. I can't handle that, man. I can't."

"Oh," he drawls, smug smile playing on his lips. "I see how it is. Once again, it's all about you."

"Yeah, Dean," he deadpans. "Everything's always about me."

"Don't I know it," he mumbles absently.

"Look," Sam tries, serious now, "consider it your making up to me, and, I don't know, the pet universe at large, for the Cujo incident."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he plainly lies.

"All I wanted was a puppy," Sam reminisces. "All I wanted in this world."

"Yeah, well, you always were a little self-centered."

"I was seven. What was I supposed to want, world peace?" he snipes.

"Works for Miss America."

"The point, Dean, is that I wanted a puppy, and Dad said no."

"You know, if you did your hair right, got a nice dress…"

"Dean," he warns, name lost inside an exhausted breath.

"I'm just saying, you're as pretty as those pageant girls," he mocks, fingers incessantly fiddling with random items in the kitchen as he speaks. The other end is silent as he runs his hands over the pile of dirty dishes, debates whether or not to do them. "Sammy?" he asks finally.

All Sam utters, in tight-lipped anger, is, "I hate you."

Dean rolls his eyes as he walks away from the sink, leaving the dishes behind. "Hey, I got you your damn dog, didn't I? Even though Dad said no. Even though he threatened to kick my ass."

"He threatened to kick your ass because you're a cruel, sadistic bastard who…who…" he stutters, trying to pick words appropriate enough to convey his level of rage, all the while his brother tries not to laugh on the other end. "Who mocked and crushed my dreams, and tortured me with a dead stuffed dog."

"_Crushed your dreams? Tortured you?_ Don't be such a freaking baby."

"You're an ass," he mutters, a mantra spoken so many times before that it falls freely from his lips.

"And for the record," Dean says, knowingly egging his brother on, "Cujo was a good dog. A great dog."

"He was a dead dog," he says plainly.

But Dean goes on. "Never gave us a lick of trouble."

"Never gave a lick period," Sam mumbles, "seeing as how his tongue was removed by the taxidermist."

"We never had to clean up after him. Never had to feed him, take him for walks."

"I _wanted_ to take a dog for walks," Sam audibly pouts.

"No vet bills."

"Dean," he says, tone impatient, "he was dead."

"That any way to talk about your best friend?" he spits.

"My best _what_?"

"Man, that dog followed you around _everywhere_," he says dreamily.

There's a distinct silence on the other end of the line, sharp and long, followed by a deep steadying breath. "_You_ followed me around everywhere, and put that creepy ass thing in my way. I'd go to the bathroom, he'd show up outside the door. I'd go to bed, wake up in the middle of the night with that…that…thing standing in my bed, staring at me."

"He loved you."

"He was dead."

"You could see it in his eyes," he goes on, unfazed.

"His creepy _dead_ eyes."

"Sam," he says with faux sincerity, as though talking to a small, stupid child, "his eyes were _glass_."

"He _followed_ us on a hunt once, remember that?" he asks accusingly.

"I vaguely recall, yes," he says, nodding his head.

"I almost shot him," he claims, as though it would have been the most horrific thing in the world to shoot a dog that's already dead.

"You almost pissed yourself," Dean counters with a cocked eyebrow and a crooked grin.

"I thought he was a werewolf," he defends.

"Dude, he was like ten pounds, some kind of chihuahua mix or something," he chokes between stifled bouts of laughter.

"It was dark. And I was _seven_. And," he goes on, still eager to defend himself, "he snuck up on me."

Dean laughs. And he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

"You know what, man…if you have such _fond_ memories of that piece of stuffed roadkill, why don't you just go get another Cujo for Michael," he says, voice entering _pissy Sam_ territory. "Or better yet, just have Mike stuffed and shellacked. I'm sure that wouldn't traumatize your son at all. Hey, you could even put her on a string so he can pull her around the house, take her out for walks."

And, of course, Sam was only kidding. Of course he never meant for what happened next to actually happen. But Dean stops laughing suddenly on the other end, falls into a thoughtful silence for a moment before, "Genius," flies from his mouth and he hangs up the phone.

It doesn't take long for him to find a taxidermist willing to do the job. Apparently people do this sort of thing fairly often. The guy who does it has eerily wide eyes, a thin creepy smile, and says things like, "It's my pleasure and duty to preserve the beauty and integrity of your beloved family member." Which just makes Dean shudder.

It costs him about five times what another rabbit would have been. But this new and improved Mike doesn't do any of the awful things the old Hormonal Bitch did. She doesn't leave any little round pellet poops on the carpet, doesn't chew at his wood trim in the hall, doesn't have to be fed, watered, or bathed. And, aside from the time she's abandoned on the stairs and Ava takes a header after tripping on her, she never draws blood again.

Michael's just happy his old friend's still around. And she can sleep with him, every night now, without any worries of what might happen if he suddenly, sleepily rolls over. And, as it turns out, Sam's leash idea is a great one, the kids having a ball dragging her all over the neighborhood, racing along as their little wheeled rabbit careens behind them.

It's weird and kind of creepy, a little gross at times when they really think about it. Like when they find Samantha sitting with Mike in her lap in front of the TV, one long furry ear in their little girl's mouth. But she's their pet, a member of the family, and that's what counts.

Dean no longer calls her the Hormonal Bitch, not anymore. He calls her Lucy, after Ava's mother, because they have the same glassy-eyed stare and staunchly stiff posture.

Sometimes Ava wants to kill her husband.

But he's her pet, a member of the family, and that's what counts.


	13. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Bobby!

* * *

It's amazing how accurate Murphy's Law can be, how the universe has impeccably terrible timing, every time. Because this is an important case, on a personal and professional level. Wrongful death. Of a four year old girl. At the hands of her drug addled older sister who was supposed to be watching her.

For a father, it doesn't get much more personal. And for a lawyer who's coming up for partner soon, taking on a case that, while it may pull at the heart strings, is a bitch to litigate, it doesn't get any more professional.

But now there's Maya. And Sarah's father. And whereas his focus was on this case before, had been for weeks, now his attention is being pulled from all different directions.

They had just gotten back from New York, the whole family – even the possibility of a plague of demonic dreams falling upon their youngest daughter not being enough to keep the clan away from Grandpa Blake's funeral. After all, he was the only grandfather the girls had ever known. And admittedly, even while trying to comfort Sarah, make nice with all her father's friends, relatives and acquaintances, logically discuss certain _issues_ with Dean over the phone when he called in a near panic every five minutes, _and _be there for his children who were sad, scared, and worried – because even Rachel knew more was up than everyone was letting on – he couldn't keep himself from working.

And now it's really crunch time, closing arguments start tomorrow, and while he's been prepared, having had his little manipulative speech ready since first receiving the case, he's going through a bout of self doubt, knowing something's wrong, yet not knowing what.

Well, he's not stupid, he got a full ride to Stanford after all. So of course he recognizes the fact that his uncertainty has more to do with _other_ things in his life. Because Sarah's barely slept in days, Maya's been needy as hell, and Bobby's set to show up any minute. But all he keeps coming back to is one sentence in his closing that is entirely off, that he just knows will lose him this case – _Implied obligations are often considered the greatest of responsibilities_.

And he can't figure out a damn thing to do about it.

"So," Maya says, skulking around the perimeter of his office as she lazily touches and handles random objects on the shelves – a biography of Picasso, an ashtray made by John years ago, a photo of the girls from Rachel's sixth birthday.

He doesn't look up from his computer screen when he says, irritated and impatient, "What?" Because though he's been used to being interrupted, having to work with various distractions, since long before the girls, what with Dean being so…Dean, he really _does_ have to work.

But Maya's nonchalant in her speech when she says, "If he's such a good friend, how come we never see him?" either not noticing or simply not caring about her father's tone.

He scans the document again, thoroughly searching for just that thing, whatever it is that is so horribly off. "He sends Christmas cards," he mumbles absently.

"So?" she asks blithely.

"So…Bobby has a life. He can't just come here whenever he wants."

She picks up another photo, this one of Sam and Sarah at their wedding – a fairly large and elaborate affair due to the insistence of Grandpa Blake – she was his only daughter after all. "How come we never went to see him?"

"Because he lives in a junkyard," he says without preface. Maya rolls her eyes insipidly, assuming he's just messing with her to make her quit the twenty questions. And Sam must just _sense_ her contemptuous little reaction, because he looks up quickly and says, "No, really."

She sighs, long and drawn out, before going silent, just long enough so that Sam starts to get back into his task. "He's not gonna, like, do any tests on me or anything, is he?" she asks suddenly, disturbing him once more.

"Yeah Maya, he's gonna strap you to a table and probe your brain." She shoots him a disdainful glare, earning only a sigh and a shrug from her father. But he gives in, realizing that there's no way he's going to finish his work tonight. "Come here," he says simply, pushing away from the desk.

She moves to stand in front of him, arms crossed defensively over her chest as she bites out, "What?"

"He's Bobby," he says, a small smile pricking his lips, because, really, if she knew him… "He's not going to hurt you. He's not going to do any tests or experiments on you. He's just a friend, a good friend, who might be able to help."

"How?" she asks, bitterly. "Does he have some kind of prescription for heavy duty sleeping pills?"

"No," he says slowly.

"Then what? He's some kind of psychic? Or psychic _researcher_ or something?"

"No, Maya, he's just…" he struggles to think of what to say, because _Bobby knows about demons_ isn't really gonna work, seeing as how they hadn't even discussed the issue of _demons_. And _Bobby knows about strange and unusual powers _probably wouldn't do much to quell her anxieties. He tries to find the right words, knowing that somewhere in the back of his mind there's a description for just _who_ and _what _Bobby is. But before he can find it Sarah peeks her head in the door and announces that their old friend's arrived.

Dean and Bobby are laughing about something when he enters, Maya looming cautiously in the background. And from the look on Ava's face, he'd guess that the two have been merrily reminiscing since welcoming Bobby at their place a few hours earlier.

They shake hands, appropriate _manly_ gesture, each commenting on how good it is to see the other, how it's been far too long. But both their tones are rough and clipped, words carrying sincerity, but also covering for a mutually felt truth – that neither wants to see the other now, not like this, not for this reason.

Maya looms in the background, lanky form hiding behind her father, eyes directed at the floor. Bobby chances a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She looks a lot like her older sister – the cautiously upbeat_ young woman_ he'd met earlier over at Dean's. They had the same long dark hair, same big round eyes, same regally lithe limbs.

But where Rachel had been strong and proud, standing at full height before him even with a toddler on her hip, Maya's length seems awkward, foal like. Where Rachel's eyes took him in graciously, sized him up hesitantly, stared him down assuredly, Maya's fail to even meet his gaze.

Sam pulls her forward, grips her shoulder tightly as though he fears she might turn and flee. "This is Maya," he says, a hint of apprehension to his otherwise casual tone.

Bobby extends his hand, chuckles deeply when all he's met with is an odd glare from the girl, eyes bouncing from his open palm up to his face. She's not so shy, he realizes, she simply doesn't feel the need to make eye contact unless it's on her terms. Sam gives her a slight shove and she reluctantly takes hold of Bobby's hand, offers up a limp shake.

He leans forward, says, low and conspiratorially, "We've met before.

"I don't remember," she replies, voice steady and even.

"Let's sit," Sam offers, dragging Maya over to the couch and placing her between himself and his wife.

"How've you been Bobby?" Sarah asks, an awkward smile attempting to cover the droll sullenness she'd taken on as of late. Understandable, of course, first losing her father, now fearing she may also be losing her daughter. Anyone can see how powerless she feels, clueless and useless. It practically oozes from her pores.

He smiles at her gently, Sarah always having had a special place in his heart. She was the first to tame a Winchester, tamed them both in a way. She was the one, above all others, who was responsible for turning their family around, settling them down, building them up. She was the one who gave both those boys what they always craved – a home.

"Oh, you know me," he offers shyly. "Same old, same old." He drops his head slightly, somber and sincere, before saying, "I'm sorry to hear about your father."

And she does what comes naturally, what's been like a nervous tick of a habit for the last week and a half. She shrugs her shoulders, smiles wide and says with glassy eyes averted, "Thank you."

"So," Sam starts, pulling the focus away from his wife, where he knows she doesn't want it to be. "You heard from any…old friends lately?"

And Bobby knows, both the boys having warned him over the phone, that Maya's not yet been _entirely_ let into the loop. So he's cautious with the answer, careful not to reveal too much. "Talked to Jo the other day. She seems to be doing all right."

"She still on the road?" Dean asks, earning him merely an affirmative nod. "Man," he sighs out, unable to keep his face from betraying his thoughts. _Jo_'s the one still out there hunting things, and _he_'s sitting around here with a family and a job and a mortgage. Crazy.

"Who's Jo?" Maya asks quietly, leaning into her father.

"Just an old friend," he says, a bit too quickly to be anything less than suspicious.

"Well," Ava chimes in, all but clapping her hands together in mock enthusiasm. Everyone looks over at her, eyebrows raised, waiting for her to go on. But her eagerness to get the proceedings under way only allowed her mind to think as far ahead as _well_. No other words come, and she turns a bit, letting her eyes dance awkwardly around the room.

Sam takes over for her, "Okay," stuttering from him in multiple syllables. He turns to his daughter. "Well, My, you know we called Bobby here to…help."

"With what?" she asks, faux naivete dripping from her innocent little face.

And it's Bobby who responds, locking narrowed eyes with her from across the room. "With your dreams."

She glares back at him, both threatening and beseeching. "Can you make them stop?" she asks, not letting her eyes drift from his for even a moment, staring him down with an icy intensity the likes of which he hadn't seen in years.

"No, darlin'," he drawls. "No, I can't."

She leans back, either deflated or oddly satisfied, both her demeanor and expression being too hard to decipher. "Thanks for your help," she mutters bitterly.

Sarah jabs an elbow in her side, ordering her in a stern yet soft tone to, "Sit up."

"Maya," Dean says from across the room, drawing her attention with the rich sincerity of his voice. "There are some things we need to talk about. Things that haven't come up before, that we haven't told you before."

Sam sighs long and hard while placing a hand on her back, forcing her to turn to him. "We never really told you much about your grandmother," he starts. "Or about how she died." He shares a quick glance with Dean, notices the pained expression on his face, and goes on, knowing just how much his brother _does not_ want to be the one to explain this. "When I was a baby, she died in a fire."

"Sam," Sarah interrupts. Because while they'd decided that Maya would have to know certain things, about the possible origins of her _powers_, about the potential dangers to her as a result, she didn't realize just how much detail he was going to go into.

Sam looks up at her, unprepared to respond, when Maya says, barely a whisper, "I know."

Dean tries to keep his face unreadable, tries not to betray any shock or surprise, or emotion at all, when he says, "You do?"

She nods simply, feels Sam's hand snake up to her shoulder and offer a quick squeeze. "Did you dream about it?" he asks, voice soft and low.

Again, she nods, the most typical response any of them had gotten when discussing her dreams – either a nod or a head shake, very few words.

"What happened in the dream?" Bobby asks, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, genuine interest crinkling his brow.

She looks at him coldly for a moment, unwilling to share such a thing with a veritable stranger. But Sam squeezes her shoulder again, nudging her forward, a mute order to answer the man. "I recognized her from the picture," she says, eyes drifting over the photo of John and Mary sitting on the mantle, the only one of either of them in the house.

"What happened?" Bobby probes, tone commanding yet, somehow far from harsh.

She shrugs, rolls her eyes, all weak attempts to downplay her words. "She was on the ceiling. On fire." She stops short, catching the wince from her uncle, the teary, far off look in his eyes. And she shakes her head, not wanting to go on, not wanting to upset him or anyone else anymore.

"What else, darlin'?" Bobby asks, his gaze once again capturing her attention.

There's something in his eyes, some sort of intense scrutiny, assured safety, like they're saying, _don't worry, you can tell me anything_. Like they're capable of making her believe that, _it's just you and me kid, tell me everything._ "The man…the one with the yellow eyes…he was there. He did it," she says knowingly, not a question to her voice.

Bobby takes a breath, looks up at Sam. He only nods in response, giving permission for him to go on questioning his daughter. "This man, with the yellow eyes, he the same fella who talked to you in a dream?"

She sputters for a moment, turning back to look at her father, also glaring at Ava, whose eyes are conveniently averted. Because she didn't realize just how much they'd told Bobby. "I don't know," she says finally, realizing that neither Sam nor Ava could be driven to guilt over their betrayal, both clearly deciding it was something that apparently needed to be said.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Dean snipes.

And she turns, open mouthed, at her uncle, as she indignantly shoots back, "I don't know." Then, turning to Bobby, "He changed a lot…looked different. Only his eyes were ever the same."

"So it was different people, all with yellow eyes?"

"Yeah," she responds, before wrinkling her brow in confusion. "Only not. Because, I think, he was always the same." Then, shaking her head, "I don't know."

Bobby leans back into his chair, stares at the ceiling, deep in thought when he mutters, "Hmm."

And it's Ava who speaks up then, "_Hmm_?" humming off her lips in questioning mimicry. "What does _hmm_ mean? Because if it means what I think it means, if it means, _oh yeah, well maybe he's back even though he's really dead and we should all totally watch out_, then I'm gonna be a little pissed. Just so you know."

"Wait," Maya interrupts, before anyone can respond. "He's dead?"

She looks to her aunt first, gaze gradually moving over to her uncle, who responds with a clearing of his throat and a rather intense glare. "We killed him," he says, voice deep and rumbling. Then, correcting himself, "It."

She cocks her head, questions hesitantly, "It?"

"It's not human, Maya," Sam says, soft words filtering into her ears.

"Okay," she concedes, more curious than surprised.

But it's Dean who finishes the thought, catches her off guard when, attention still on her father, she hears him say, "It's a demon."

And maybe it's because so much of what was seen in her dreams, all of which she _knew_ to be true, was crazy – monsters and villains and ghosts. Or maybe it's because there was something entirely _off_ about this yellow eyed _guy_ from the get go, something obviously supernatural. Or maybe it's just because she's young, ten-years-old being an age where, though cynicism begins to take root in a child's mind, wonder and a desire to simply _believe_ still run free. "A demon," she mutters, word tasting strange on her tongue, like a bitter truth she always knew without ever realizing.

"He'd been after our family for a long time," Dean goes on. "He killed our mother. Me and your dad, and _our _dad, we searched for him for over twenty years before finally finding and killing the evil son of a bitch." He snarls when he speaks, unable it seems to keep a straight face when discussing such a heinous beast.

"He wanted me," Sam says softly, hand still resting heavily on her shoulder.

She turns to face him, looking into his eyes for only a fraction of a second before turning away sharply after noticing the pain and grief behind them. "Because you had dreams?" she asks, already knowing the answer.

"Because he's special," Sarah chimes in, leaning forward and collecting her daughter's face in her hands. "Just like you."

Maya winces at the words, wanting to be neither special nor sought after by a _demon_. But Sam's voice soothes her when he says, "I didn't want to be this way," low and soft and just for her. "I didn't ask for this. Neither did Ava. Neither did you. I know that. And I know that it's hard…confusing and scary and just plain weird. But we're going to get through this. All of us."

She looks up at him, seeing nothing but her father's honest eyes, noticing no one else in the room. "Is he going to come for me?"

And Sam prepares himself to speak the truth, to say, _Even if he did, I wouldn't let him have you. I'd never let him have you_. But he doesn't get the chance, Dean's voice booming from across the room. "No."

Sensing the tension in the air, scared little girl, too protective adults, Bobby speaks up, tries to calm everyone with a bit of rationalization. "We don't even know that it's him. Could be another demon, a different one."

"Who?" Dean asks bitterly. "Can't be his kids, we killed one, exorcised the other."

"Demons don't have _kids_ like we do. It's not the same. Those kids he had, probably just his minions, next in command. Doesn't mean he didn't think of them as his children, they're capable of making bonds just the same as you and me. But they don't reproduce like us," Bobby responds, gruffly displaying his expertise.

"So…" Ava encourages.

"Well," the old man goes on, "Could be that there's one for each generation. Or another one was born to carry on the ways of the old after you boys did him in. Balance and all."

"So it didn't even matter? Us killing him, didn't even make a damn bit of difference, that what you're saying?" Dean asks defensively.

"No," he replies, shaking his head low and sorrowfully. "No, I'm not."

"But…"

"Certain demons grow in power as time progresses. Just like people. They learn more about what they can do, try out new skills, get better at it. The one you killed was mighty powerful. This one?" He looks over at Maya as he speaks, "This one hasn't done anything yet but hop into her dream world."

"What else could he do?" she asks, working to mask the panic.

"Maybe nothing," he responds. "We don't know."

Dean lets out an indignant snort. "Well, that's just great."

"Hey, I'm not a magician here," Bobby defends. "I'm just an old man with a few ideas."

"Any of those ideas gonna be useful to us, Bobby?" he snipes, earning him a ferocious glare.

"Don't be smart with me boy. I might be nearing the end of my days, but I could still kick your sorry ass."

"Can we maybe get back on track here?" Sam interrupts, all eyes drawn by the sound of his impatient voice. "What do we do?"

"The basics," Bobby sighs. "Recon." He turns to Maya, catches her eyes and holds her gaze as he says, gruff and commanding, "You need to tell us every detail of every dream you have, no matter silly or small it might seem. Write it all down, just as soon as you wake up so it's still all fresh in your mind. If anything else happens, when you're not asleep, you tell your dad, right away. Or your mom or uncle. You tell. Understand?"

"Anything else, like what?" she asks, words holding both confusion and trepidation.

He shrugs, frowning deeply. "Anything…weird."

"Great," she mutters, flopping back into the couch cushions. "_Weird_, that shouldn't be tough around here."

"Maya," Sam warns, recognizing his daughter's moody tone.

"Well, come on," she whines. "I don't know what that means."

"Neither do we," Bobby says simply. "We don't know what might be normal everyday stuff, some kind of coincidence. Or what might be a demon acting in mysterious ways. That's why we've gotta know _everything_ that happens to you."

And in typical independent, indignant, ten-year-old fashion, she scoffs, rolls her eyes thickly and says, "What a load of – "

"Finish that sentence and you're grounded for a year," Sarah threatens quickly, one long finger jabbing through the air at her _precocious _daughter.

Bobby shakes his head and chuckles, deep and raspy. "She's just like John, ain't she?" he inquires with a smile.

Maya pulls herself upright, a flash of bitter indignation crossing her features as, "I am not," comes out in a quick, shrill tone.

Sam turns to her and places a hand on her knee – _calm down and_ _check the attitude_. "Not _John_," he says, knowing immediately she was thinking of her cousin, the only John she knows. "Your Grandpa John.

"Oh," she ekes out, relaxing her shoulders again. Then, after coarsely crossing her arms in front of her and raising a single petulant brow, she says, "I wouldn't know."

Sarah shoots her a death glare, having had just about enough of her daughter's attitude for one day, especially with company in the house. But it's Bobby who speaks up, "No, I guess you wouldn't," falling casually from his lips. "But I'll tell you one thing about your Grandpa John," he says, leaning back a bit. "He always managed to let his mouth get him into trouble. Cocky bastard," he mumbles, returning quickly with, "Pardon my French."

"I hate when people say that," Maya gripes under her breath. "If that were French, then Uncle Dean would have been made an ambassador to France by now."

And he knows it's wrong, Sam does, to encourage that sort of audacity in his young daughter, especially after working so hard throughout the years to instill some manners in his children. But it's so rare that Maya's candor comes across as anything less than petty, so rare that she says or does something truly funny – insolence rarely giving way to wit. So he laughs, long and hard and utterly delighted.

"I resent that," Dean says plainly, ignoring his brother's guffaws.

"But you don't deny it," Ava singsongs next to him.

And Bobby…well, Bobby just sits back and watches, takes in the family before him, soaking up the light laughter and easy ribbing. He stares straight ahead at the girl in front of him, slowly memorizing the contours of her face, ticking with the urge to bite back a smile. He observes the way her dark hair falls haphazardly over her shoulders when she shakes her head in awful embarrassment – these adults making fools of themselves as they continue to banter. He notices her dramatic roll of the eyes, so like her father at that very same age.

He takes it all in and stashes it back somewhere deep in his mind. Back with the images from Sam's wedding, and those from the day Rachel was born. Memories of watching these boys he's known for years, since they truly were _boys_, coddling babies and chasing after toddlers, smiling fondly, lovingly, graciously, at their wives. He stores them all back in a place reserved for someone else, someone who should have been there to see every moment, every smile and grin. Someone who should have been there now, to deal with every worry and fear.

Because this is _John_'s family. These are_ his _boys, his babies. And this is _his_ granddaughter, full of crooked smiles, arrogant glares, and sad, beaten eyes.

The last time he saw John Winchester he'd chased him off his property with a shotgun in one hand and an empty bottle of Bourbon in the other – son of a bitch just had that effect on people, made them want to drink and murder. But he was a friend none the less, one of his best really. And he must have known that Bobby would always honor that friendship, always be there when needed. It was why, Bobby was sure, John entrusted his boys to him, laid them in the palms of his hopefully capable hands, upon his death. For safekeeping.

And Bobby's never let a friend down yet.


	14. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

"This is total bull shit," she casually spouts. "You know that, right?"

Dean glares at her over the dagger he's polishing, uselessly chides, "Watch your mouth."

She fires up a vicious glare of her own, all self-assured indignation, and says simply, "She's my sister," as though that should explain it all – why she can't be bothered to focus on cleaning weapons, an important part of training because, _if you can't take care of something properly, how do you expect it take care of you?_ It should explain why she's moody and snippy, anxiously concerned and moping about being left out. It should explain why she has every right to know just what exactly is going on back at home.

Dean chances a quick glance, meets her eyes just long enough to gauge her sincerity. She's right, of course. She should be involved, at the very least informed. Because Maya _is_ her sister, her younger sibling, the number one person on the face of the planet – at least until she has children of her own – who requires her care and protection no matter what.

No one knew that better than Dean.

And let's be honest, Maya's…situation might not be one that just anyone could understand. But Rachel _knows_. She'd spent the past year and a half pouring over every journal entry – Dean's, Sam's, their father's – and nearly every bit of accumulated research from all the hunts they'd done. She knew about the Winchester past, about the demon, about Mary, about her father and Ava. And she knew about the things they hunted, even researched on her own, curiosity regarding this other world consuming her young mind. She'd even managed to get stuff out of Bobby, a tough old crone on the outside, but an eager teacher once you dig down deep.

Yet, though she knew the old hunter had come back into their lives for more than just a mere visit, had come specifically to see and speak with her little sister, even he, during all their discussions and sessions, would relay nothing to her about Maya.

It wasn't fair. It's not fair. What is all this training for – guns and knives, machetes and krav maga, EMF and ancient rituals – if not to prepare her to guard and protect the kids. Maya, John, Michael, Samantha – they were her responsibilities, whether she liked it or not.

But what is Dean supposed to do, really? It's not his place, any more than it was Bobby's, or Sam's or Sarah's, to say anything to Rachel. Because Maya had decided no one else should know, even after her parents informed her that Rache had stumbled upon their family's mottled past already, would surely not judge her or think she was nuts.

It was her secret to keep.

"You're not paying attention," Dean says, motioning to the blade in her hand. "You're gonna cut yourself."

She throws the knife down, "This is so unfair," booming from her as she rises to pace.

"Rachel," her uncle warns, low and deep.

But she doesn't take heed, instead turns on him and says, sounding every bit the 14-year-old she is instead of the mature near-adult she always seems, "Well it is."

Dean rises and walks over to her, stilling her mid-strut by taking hold of both her shoulders. He looks at her straight on, simple enough since she's nearly his height, and mutters through tight lips, tone definite and final, "Drop it."

Her expression changes, face dropping from arrogant, petulant teenager to a sad and sulky child. She knows just how to manipulate him, mixing sad puppy eyes with cool sincerity. "How can you tell me that?" she asks, calm and beseeching. "How can _you_ say that to me?"

He takes a deep breath, lets out a heavy sigh. How _can_ he tell her that? How can he possibly say to her, _leave it alone, it's not your business_, when it so obviously is? He can't, not really. But, "You wanna know what's going on with Maya, you're gonna have to ask _Maya_."

"You think I haven't tried? She won't talk to me," she claims, exasperated.

"She never talks to you," he deadpans. "She never talks to any of us."

"Exactly."

He shrugs, guides her back over to the table and sits her down, places the not so shiny dagger in the palm of her hand, and points at it, gesture alone a command to clean.

"I only want what's best for her," she tries, words dripping with trite sincerity. It's true, of course, she does want that, but this declaration is merely a tactic and he knows it.

He sits down across from her, pulls out a .22 and begins the task of dismantling and cleaning it, eyes trained solely on the gun, avoiding her completely. "Yeah," he utters. "Me too."

"So tell me," she pleads, leaning across the table and taking hold of his wrist.

Her voice melts into him, because it's no longer whining, no longer contrived, just strong and serious and…Rachel. "Look," he bites out, pulling away. "She doesn't want me to tell you. So I'm not going to tell you."

"Even though you think I should know? Even though you agree it'd be in her best interest?"

"I never said that," he snipes, looking up to meet her gaze.

She rolls her eyes – _come on, I'm not an idiot_ – before allowing her face to take on an odd expression, one of near disappointment and utter hope. It seems to say, _I have faith in you, I know you'll do the right thing._ It reminds him of his mother, of her mother, of any mother, quite frankly.

"You're not gonna guilt me into betraying her confidence," he responds, voice strong despite a wavering will.

She smiles coyly. "_Betrayal_ is such an ugly word."

"Then don't make me _personify_ it," he shoots back with a rather snotty and accomplished smirk of his own.

"Ooo, personify," she taunts, bottom lip jutting out in mock amazement. "Been helping John with his vocab words?"

"So what if I have," he says with a grin.

She smiles briefly, looks to the blade in front of her, contemplates finishing her assigned task. But it's just not in her right now, and even though it may just seem like she's avoiding doing the dirty work, or being plain petty in refusing to do work at all, the truth is she knows better than to do this when distracted – five stitches and a shouting match between her father and uncle being all the lesson she needed to figure that one out.

"Seriously," she says simply after a long moment of silence.

And now it's Dean's turn to whine. Because he actually needs to get this done, preparing, unbeknownst to Rachel, to head out on a quick hunt this weekend – probably just a simple salt and burn, but you gotta be prepared. And because, "I already told you. No."

"Uncle Dean, if you don't tell me, who will?"

"Not my problem," he responds, eyeing the cold dark barrel of the gun.

"Seriously," she retorts.

"Stop saying that."

"But…seriously."

He looks up at her, slamming down the weapon with a heavy thunk. "Rachel, damn it. What do you want me to do?" he asks, voice desperate. "She doesn't want me to tell you."

"But," she starts, only to be quickly cut off.

"You're not my only niece, you know," he says sharply.

"No," she begins, transforming her expression into a manipulative grin. "But I am your favorite."

He glares at her, a mixture of contempt and sadness in his eyes. "We're not playing that game."

She turns away, angry and defeated, deep red blush burning at her cheeks and ears. "Fine," she nearly screams, rising in a huff and walking out the door.

There's no one else at home, Ava having taken the kids shopping or picnicking or something, to get them out of the house for Dean and Rachel's _lesson_, so she can't exactly catch a ride. And she's a good ten miles from her own house, would have to cross the highway to get there too. But that doesn't stop her from trying, walking quickly down the street with Dean's shouts trailing behind her.

After a minute, his voice disappears and her stride shortens. She's a good block and a half away when he pulls up in the Impala and tells her to _get in now_.

She opens the creaky door, slides over the smooth leather, and tries to remember the last time she was in this car. Because everyone knows the Impala is Uncle Dean's prized possession, his pride and joy, and the kids are rarely allowed near its interior – something about sticky hands and baby vomit.

He doesn't say a word as he drives her home, low rumble of the engine being the only sound set to echo in her ears.

She was ten, she finally remembers. She was ten-years-old, and Dean had taken her and Maya to the circus. They made a whole day of it, and, if she recalls correctly, the main reason for turning it into such a big deal – taking the Impala, getting front row seats, eating nothing but popcorn and cotton candy all day long – was so that he could annoy her father with the fact that he was being allowed to take them at all. Because she remembers her mother rolling her eyes at Sam's protests, muttering something about a _stupid clown phobia_, and telling Dean, _they're all yours_, much to her father's chagrin.

Maya screamed and cried when a clown tried to give her a balloon, and Rachel puked in the front seat on the way home. It's a wonder that they weren't allowed in the Chevy more often.

Her father's car is in the driveway when then pull up, mother's absent, her being at the gallery all day setting up for a show. And when they walk in the house, Dean still silent and stiff, they're met with the lovely smell of burnt cheddar, signaling Sam's famous grilled cheese sandwiches.

"Hey," he says, turning from the stove, spatula in hand, "What are you doing back so soon?" The question's directed at Rachel, but his confused eyes bounce up to Dean.

He points at Maya, sitting quietly at the table, waiting patiently for her lunch. "We need to talk," he says, eyebrows raised.

"Dean," Sam hisses, a question and a threat all in one.

But he ignores him completely, ignores Rachel's awkward gaze as it bounces around the room, ignores Maya's confused and contemptuous glare as he takes a seat across from her. "You got a lot of people who love you," he says to her, voice low and soft and just for her. "And that's damn lucky. And I understand, because of that, maybe you don't see how important just _one_ of them is."

He pauses briefly, turns around to see Sam flip off the stove, look down at him with a crinkled brow.

"When I was your age I only had two people who loved me, and one of them was always gone. The other," he says, flicking his thumb back to indicate her father, "was a pain in the ass. But he was _my_ pain in the ass."

Maya continues to stare at him, expression rather blank, as Rachel drops her head and slinks back to the wall.

"You," he declares, pointing at his young niece, "are her," tossing his other thumb back at Rache, "biggest pain in the ass." He pauses just long enough for Maya's face to contort into an offended sort of grimace. "We're all here to take care of you," he mutters, leaning back in his chair. "_All_ of us."

"What are you doing?" she squeaks out, a low and panicked whisper. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because she deserves to know," he says decisively.

Sam moves over to the table, sets down a sandwich in front of Maya, one hand on the plate, the other falling to his daughter's shoulder, fiercely protective. "We've been through this, Dean," he hums through a clenched jaw.

But it's Rachel who responds, before her uncle even gets the chance to voice his defense. "I just want to help," she says quickly, stepping up, standing at Dean's side. Then, looking right into her little sister's eyes, "I can help."

She shakes her head, drops her glassy gaze. "No you can't."

"My," she sighs out, taking a seat next to her, "how do you know if you won't even let me try?"

"You can't," she repeats simple and soft.

"Rachel," Sam states, capturing her attention from above, "it's really nice that you want to help. Really. But – "

She cuts him off with, "You don't get it, Dad. You don't understand. You never have."

Sam's face falls, flashing hurt as he voices a mere, "Rache."

She shakes her head solemnly. "It's not your fault. You just…don't get it." Her gaze returns to Maya who's staring pitifully down at her grilled cheese – the one she'd been so craving, so excited about just minutes before. "You're my little sister. It doesn't matter how many other people are around to take care of you, in the end, it's still my job."

Maya scoffs, but doesn't look up.

"Hey," she tries, voice lightening, "who let you sleep with her when you were convinced there was a monster under your bed?"

Sam and Dean share a quick, questioning glance, neither having heard anything about any monster before. And Maya rolls her eyes, flat out lies, "I don't remember that."

"Right," Rachel concedes with an eye roll all her own. "Well, it was me." She nudges her sister's elbow before going on with, "Who never told a soul about what happened with Billy Campbell last year?"

"Rachel," she seethes, directing a wide-eyed glare in her direction.

Again, Sam and Dean's eyes meet, the younger brother voicing the question on both of their faces, "What happened with Billy Campbell?"

"Nothing," Maya nearly shouts, follows it up with an exasperated, "God."

Unfazed, Rachel continues. "Who told you not to climb that tree when you were five? And then ran and got Mom and Dad after you fell?"

"I jumped," she snipes, as though that declaration makes it any better.

"And who sat with you the entire time in the ER waiting room, _and_ let you sleep in her room that night while you were hopped up on pain killers?" The girls' eyes meet, a knowing glance between them. Rachel smiles, crooked and conniving. "And who – "

"Okay, I get it!" Maya leans back in her chair, fold her arms protectively across her chest. "This is different," she mutters.

"Why? Because it's crazy and…unreal?" Maya looks back up at her, connecting with her questioning eyes for no more than a fleeting moment. "I know about all that. And I know its crazy and weird and totally fucked up."

"Hey," Sam blasts. "Watch your mouth."

She gives him a barely apologetic glance, more an annoyed scowl really. "The point," she continues, "is that I'm not gonna think that _you're_ crazy, or weird, or totally…F-ed up." Maya says nothing, only nervously gnaws at her lip, a sign that she's _this_ close to giving in. "You can tell me," she whispers, leaning in close.

Maya looks up at her father hesitantly, then at her uncle. And they get what she's asking, what she wants them to do. "Come on, Sammy," Dean says, slight smile breaking onto his face as he slaps playfully at his brother's arm. "I'll take you back to my place so you finish your daughter's cleaning."

They leave the room, head out the front door, all the while bits of brotherly banter flying between them. Sam turns only once, looking back at his girls and locking eyes with them both, asking Maya if she's sure. Telling Rachel to be careful.

And then they're alone.

Maya licks her lips, prepares to tell her sister some of the _anything_ she'd requested. But before she can, before _anything_ comes out, Rachel reaches down and snatches half the grilled cheese, nonchalantly leaning back in her seat to munch on her sister's lunch.

"Gee," Maya quips with a roll of the eyes, "help yourself."


	15. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Just a quick little slice of life before delving back into the demonically based quasi-angst. Enjoy!

* * *

"So he _is_ going to sell?" she asks, finally sitting after effectively positioning plates, silverware, food, and kids at the table.

"Yeah," Dean mutters, mouth and plate already full, "I guess so."

"You guess?" She shakes her head admonishingly. "Baby, you can't _guess_ about these things. You need to know. _We _need to know."

"Oh, _we_ do?" he asks snidely, earning him an icy glare from his wife.

"I'm sorry," she shoots indignantly, "you're right. It's not something _I_ need to know about. It's not something _I _should have any say in. After all, it was only my life savings that was drained so you could buy that place."

Dean swallows hard and offers up a shit-eating grin. "Glad you understand."

John shifts uncomfortably in his chair, quietly interrupts with a meek, "Mom?" just to break the obvious tension between his parents. Dean and Ava don't fight often, not really. Little spats are one thing, hell, there's probably not a single person in Dean's life whose relationship with him isn't peppered with asinine little tiffs. But real fights, those are pretty rare for the two. And when they do happen, they tend to be loud, messy, and all out free-for-alls that any boy his age would be eager to quell.

"Yeah, sweetie?" she responds, eyes not moving from Dean's still rather smug face.

"Um," he starts, trying to come up with something to say. To no avail.

The two adults don't seem to notice, neither paying particular attention to their son in the first place. "That garage is mine too," she says under her breath, beginning to slap portions of food on her children's plates.

"Oh really?" he asks sardonically. "Explain that one to me."

"Marital. Property. State," she issues out with a satisfied tilt of her chin.

"Yeah, well…" he starts, trailing off before taking another mouthful of potatoes.

"Yeah, well," she mocks, "like I said, it was my savings that got us here."

"_I_ bought the place," he booms, tossing down his fork.

Ava doesn't so much as blink. "And _I_ kept this house running and these children fed and clothed the entire time _your_ garage wasn't making any money."

"It was just starting out. And I don't hear you complaining about not having any money now."

"No, Dear," she placates. "You don't _hear_ me."

He glares daggers at her, lets out an indignant snort before, "Anytime you wanna run the place, Sweetheart, you just feel free," falls critically from his smirking lips.

"Well, gee," she says, faux saccharine sincerity leadening her words, "I just doubt I'd have time, what with having to run _this_ place here." She sweeps her arm around the cluttered kitchen in a dramatic show off gesture before spitting out, "Sweetheart."

"Mom?" John says again, this time with an inkling of something to follow it up with.

"What?" she replies, still staring down her husband.

And again, as before, John's too slow to weasel his way in, his father taking over once more with, "You wanna trade? Fine by me."

She laughs, incredulously, haughtily. "You don't know the first thing about how to run this house."

"You know how to rebuild a carburetor?" he snipes back.

"I'm sure Jimmy could teach me," she says with a coy smile, referencing the young, totally built, not too bright, mechanic he'd hired a few months before.

"I'll bet he could," he mumbles, shoving more food in his mouth, averting his eyes from his smirking wife.

She sighs, long and drawn out, eager to still make her point. "You can't cook," she begins, counting off on her finger tips. "You can barely do laundry. You act like you've never even _seen_ a vacuum before in your life." He huffs in that _you don't know what you're talking about_ way he has, and she fires up some more. "You mowed down my tomatoes when you tried to cut the grass. You can't seem to understand that dishes need to be rinsed off before being thrown in the dishwasher."

"It's a _dishwasher_," he snarks. "Why the hall should I have to wash them first?"

"Because you do," she tosses back vehemently. Then, "You are incapable of making a bed, cleaning a toilet, putting the top back on the tube of toothpaste," she hisses bitterly.

"Oh, yeah, that again," he says, rolling his eyes and effectively drowning out his son's repeated effort to get their attention.

She leans forward, across the table at him and says, an argument to end all arguments, "The last time I left you alone with the kids, you lost our daughter."

His mouth drops, a truly affronted expression. "I did not lose her. She was hiding."

"And you failed to find her," she responds, smugly shoving a chunk of chicken in her mouth.

"He," he exclaims, pointing at Michael with his fork, "failed to find her."

"She's really good," Michael nods.

"And if you're so worried about that happening again, we'll strap a bell on her," Dean says deeply, hoping to end the conversation.

Everyone sits in silence for a moment, Ava absently piling food on her children's plates. It's not until she begins cutting Michael's chicken into a million tiny pieces that she speaks again, uttering with a fair amount of contempt, "You should call Sam."

"Why?" he asks dryly.

"Because this deal is contractually based."

"So?"

"So, he's a lawyer," she says, voice hitting a near squeal. "You do know what lawyers do, right?"

Dean narrows his eyes at her, fills his mouth greedily before responding with, "Lawyer things."

She smirks. "Smart ass." And then, turning quickly to Michael, whose mouth is already half open and poised to repeat, "No. Don't you dare. You, mister, are in enough trouble already."

The boy pouts deeply, sliding back into his chair, his father's suddenly voice drilling into him, "Now what?"

"He brought that _rabbit_ to school again and was tormenting some poor girl with it," Ava explains.

"She has a name," he snipes at his mother, quickly apologizing when her eyes turn on him, wide and fiery.

"Yeah?" Dean says, voice suddenly lighter, an audible smile trailing after. "What's her name?"

Michael looks at him like he's crazy, like's he's completely lost his mind, not knowing her name after living with her for over a year. "Mike," he says plainly.

Dean cocks his head at Ava briefly, utterly perplexed scowl on his face. "Sheila," she tells him, offering up the name of the girl.

"Oh," Michael says, shooing his mother's hands away from his plate, eager to get on with dinner, "_her_."

"What's she like?" Dean asks his son, voice low and conspiratorial.

"Who?"

"Sheila," he says, drawing the name out into two long and sultry syllables.

Michael rolls his eyes dramatically, but can't hide the shy smile perking the corners of his lips. He shrugs. "I don't know."

John giggles from across the table, singsongs, "You like her," and shares a knowing smirk with his father.

"Do not!"

"Do so."

"I do not," he repeats, high pitched voice making everyone cringe.

Ava turns to her left, silverware in hand, and reaches for Samantha's plate, readying herself to cut the three-year-old's meat, when she says plainly, despite a glint in her eye, "Leave him alone."

"Yeah," the younger boy spouts. "Leave him alone."

Ava almost laughs, locking eyes with Dean and matching his coy grin with one of her own. She _almost _laughs. But before she gets the chance, a sudden sharp pain hits her mid hand, and, "Fork stabbed!" rings out in clear toddler speak as tiny fingers release the tip of the instrument just thrust into Ava's flesh.

"What the hell?" Dean bellows, jumping up and taking hold of her hand. His eyes bounce wildly back and forth between his daughter and his wife, seeing Ava's shocked, wide-eyed expression, and the little girl's giddy bright smile. "The fuck," he mutters, moving to the other side of the table to better tend to the wound.

"No!" Ava shouts over her shoulder in Michael's direction as Dean drags her to the sink.

"Let me see," he demands, holding her hand steadily. It's not bad, not too deep, Sammy's only a child after all, how strong could she be? He almost laughs a little when she grunts in pain as he wiggles the fork out of her hand, because, really, "It's nothing."

"Fork stabbed!" is heard from behind them, followed quickly by John's, "No," as he grabs another fork away from his little sister.

Dean runs his thumb gingerly over the four-pronged wound, working the sudsy water in so as to clean it properly. "It's barely even bleeding," he says slowly, calming her.

"It hurts," is her only reply. To which Dean brings her hand to his lips and kisses it softly, a sensual sort of _all better_.

"Mom?" John calls out from the table. "Are you okay?"

She turns off the water and spins round, heads back to her seat, "Yeah, honey, I'm fine."

Dean kneels down in front of his daughter, eye to eye, and asks in a serious, yet not at all intimidating voice, "Why did you do that?"

She shrugs, gleeful smile still lingering on her chubby little face.

Ava tries, tone a bit harder, "That hurt, Sammy. Why'd you hurt Mommy?"

She looks up at her mother, grin slowly fading into a terrible pout. "Fork stabbed," she says simply. "Is funny."

"No," Dean says, shaking his head for added effect. "No, it's not."

"You laughed," Michael mumbles under his breath. Then, when both parents turn to him, "Last night, on TV. You laughed at it then."

Ava's eyes go wide, turning on her husband just in time to see that crooked half smile, _oops, my bad_ expression flood his face. And damn if it wasn't the same as that dreaded _you can't be mad at me, I'm too darn cute_ face. Try as she might, she'd never be fully immune to that one.

"I uh," he tries to explain, having some difficulty navigating through the possible excuses – _I didn't realize they were in the room. I was tired from working all day. I might have had a couple of beers in me. Hey, at the time, it _was_ funny._

"You let our children watch a show about fork stabbing people?" she asks evenly.

"It wasn't about fork stabbing," he responds, words all tainted with nervous breaths.

But John – and up until a moment ago, John had been his new favorite child – chimes in with, "No, it was about kicking _ass_. And showing _boobs_."

"Michael," Ava says sharply, eyes sweeping in the younger boy's direction, "tell your brother what soap tastes like."

"It's not good," he responds with wide eyes.

"And you," she hisses, low and deep, glaring daggers at her husband who's still kneeling by Samantha's side. "This is exactly what I'm talking about."

He snickers and stutters uncomfortably, "I don't know what you mean." Then, as he moves in a little closer to his daughter, using the age-old baby shield, "The kid's obviously nuts. There was no ass kicking, boob showing, fork stabbing…"

"Get off the floor," she chides, injured hand shooing him back towards his seat at the table.

"Okay," he responds, voice suddenly submissive and childlike.

"John," she says, turning to her eldest, "Tell Daddy what you're allowed to watch on television."

The boy clears his throat, this being an often practiced, well-rehearsed routine. "Cartoons made expressly for children," he begins, ending each item on the list with an arrogant tilt of his head. "Network, prime time family oriented sitcoms." Which earns a rather obnoxious snort from his father. "And anything on the Disney Channel or Nickelodeon."

"John," Dean says plainly, "Tell Mommy, that's crap."

"Don't you _dare_," she issues, supposedly to John. But her fiery eyes are locked in on Dean.

He stares her down for a moment, finally looking away when her cold intensity gets to be too much. "Look," he says, gaze trained on the food before him, "it wasn't that bad, really. It was just an old, funny show."

She shrugs dramatically. "Old funny show about ass kicking, fork stabbing _boobs_."

"No" he snickers, ridiculous images flooding his brain. "No, that actually would have been better."

"Dean…"

He looks up, offers a sincere smile. "Yeah, I know."

Ava settles back in her chair, seemingly content with his _near_ apology, and begins to eat along with the others. The entire family seems to calm down, everyone silently partaking of their meal, no more asinine comments or argumentative rifts. They all just…eat.

No one notices Samantha pick up another fork.

"It was pretty freakin' hysterical though," Dean mutters with a slight laugh. "I mean," he starts, a bit louder, end of his thought being suddenly cut off and replaced with, "Ow, son of a bitch!"

Ava looks up to see him quickly reach out and tear the piece of silverware from his hand, stare painfully, angrily, at the little girl beside him. Then she smiles wide, and asks in a saccharine sweet voice, "What do you say, Honey, is fork stabbing still funny?"

He considers responding, considers making some sort of defensive retort or sarcastic comment. But really, what would be the point?


	16. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Just a bit of plot development. Next up, though, some more humor with a Winchester Halloween!

* * *

She could sleep. That had been her one consolation for the past year and a half. She was finally able to sleep.

It was a man named Soren who'd been the key, the one to show her how to rest her eyes and mind once more. He was Swedish, and looked the part, pale and willowy, too tall with eerie blue eyes and white hair. And he was versed in the _old ways_, ancient magics and crafts, the type she'd never known existed before, real and natural and well hidden for centuries.

"It is not your television witchcraft," he'd told her, thick accent curling around each word. "No wiggling nose, no riding brooms. It is _science_," he'd said, wide, fond smile taking over his worn face. "It is _life_."

Soren only came to meet with her once, at Bobby's request. And really, how could he not hop the Atlantic since, "Bobby is good friend. Helpful." So much more underlying those words.

It was that meeting, their first and technically only meeting, that was the most difficult. Admittedly, she understood little of what he said, the man going on in rigid and garbled English about nature and herbs and connections and something he called _mind-body togetherness_. But it was also the most empowering, wiry old man standing staunchly in front of her father, refusing to let him or anyone participate in their private gathering. "I'm here for Maya," he'd said plainly, crystalline eyes unmoving. "You are not Maya."

Anyone else, she had a feeling, her father would have hit, he just had that distressed look about him. But this time he merely mumbled under his breath, something akin to _stupidfuckingwhitewitchass_, and told her in no uncertain terms that, "I'll be right in the next room. If you need me, I'll be right outside."

She'd nodded solemnly, demeanor matching what she was certain her dad expected – anxious terror – but on the inside she tingled with excitement. He'd wanted to meet with _her_. This was all about _her_. For once, the only one being consulted about the dreams her mind was spinning, was _her_.

He taught her to make tea – though she'd never boiled water before, unless you counted helping Aunt Ava with pasta – talking her through the entire process, every motion, every herb. He used chamomile – _to calm, no fear, keeps away the evil spirits_ – and mugwort – _so you know what you dream!_ He gave her a wreath stuffed full of gray and black feathers, remnants of some native Swedish bird, told her it would help _guide the dreams_. And he told her all about the mysterious dreamworld, a vast amalgam of places shared by all who sleep. "We dream together," he'd said. "We just don't know."

There was something about Soren from Sweden that she found simply beguiling. She trusted the sincere quality to his deep blue eyes, pale thin face. There was an odd familiarity with the way he said her name – _My-YA_ – always drawing it out, emphasizing the last syllable, holding it longer on his tongue, savoring.

And there was, perhaps most importantly, an apparent respect, almost reverence, directed towards her. "You have a gift. You see," he'd said to her, gaze imploring.

And when she shook her head no, told him adamantly, "I don't want it," he frowned deeply, the first and only time she'd seen his face fold in on itself in despair.

"It is not good for you," he said slowly. "It is not bad." He reached down and took her hand in his, leveled his icy eyes on her disbelieving face. "It is what it is. _You_ make it more."

Soren had a computer solely for the purpose of communicating – and, he'd admitted, downloading old Canadian TV shows – because writing in different languages was easier for him than hearing and speaking them aloud. So they talked mostly via email, a welcome arrangement for Sam and Sarah who had no desire to pay an arm and a leg for international long distance.

She'd tell him about her dreams, no longer quite as frightening, images calmer and clearer. Most often she simply reiterated what was written in her journal, the one Bobby had gotten for her – leather bound with her initials embossed on the cover – just for that purpose. But occasionally she would throw in an aside, mention some element of confusion or concern, always casually, never wanting to alarm anyone.

The nice thing about Soren was that he never _did_ get alarmed, never turned anything into something it wasn't, blowing things out of proportion. She didn't like it when everyone made a big deal out of nothing, especially if was _nothing_ that had happened to _her_, and Soren never did.

He emailed her _recipes_ to help with whatever ailed her at the time, even sent some along to aide her sister's broken arm – _good for bones_ – and her mother's sudden ailment – _makes the sun shine, so she can see all there is to see_. They were never called spells, never known in their house as anything other that Soren's Recipes, except by Uncle Dean who'd made a face and dubbed them _witches brews_. They were simply holistic teas and potpourris, flowers and salts and oils meant for bathing or merely breathing. They soothed a too quick mind, helped in concentrating and processing, aided in meditation and focus. And sleep.

And so she slept, sometimes dreaming of awful things past, sometimes manipulating her _gift_ enough to catch glimpses of the good – her mother's sweet 16, a prank war from so many years ago that she barely even recognized her father and uncle. Occasionally she could make out the features of her grandfather, so foreign to her yet also so familiar. She'd heard the soft rumble of his voice, felt the joy of his laughter, sensed the power in his stare. Bobby had smiled when she told him this, said, in a raspy dreamy voice, "I wish you could have known him."

She'd responded with, "I _do_ know him."

And so she'd finally accepted the fact that maybe Soren was right, maybe this _curse_ of sight wasn't really a curse after all. Maybe it really was simply what she made of it.

It hadn't been easy, of course, the whole process was long and involved and at times nearly too much to bear. Stinky teas that made her nose wrinkle in disgust, her stomach roil once filled. Explicit directives involving journal keeping – no more lazily falling out of slumber or resting open-eyed and clear-headed in bed. Now she had to put pen to paper immediately upon waking, whether it was the middle of the night, or so late in the morning that she'd be late for school. There were _lessons_ with Uncle Dean, and, worst of all, with Rachel. Because apparently she knew _a lot_ and actually wanted to teach Maya – and no matter how much restful sleep and certain herbs might have aided her concentration, teaching Maya still always resulted in pain and frustration for all parties involved.

And what of the pain and frustration, the fear and helplessness, that they all felt, all had to contend with on a daily basis? That was perhaps the most difficult task, setting it aside, working through and beyond all the _what if_'s and _oh no_'s. Trying to focus on helping herself, even as all those around her lost themselves in the sorrows that _their_ inability to help had brought.

Like her parents, whom had begun checking on her in the middle of the night again. They would sneak in two, maybe three times a night, just to check, just to see if she was sleeping peacefully. Sometimes Maya wondered if they were checking to see if she was even still there at all.

When she was little her mother would kiss her goodnight, lips pressing softly to her brow, a quick and fleeting, yet wholly tender _I love you_. Now it was lingering and urgent, as though she were measuring her temperature, waiting to feel her pulse, making sure her daughter was still alive. As though there were no other way to tell, no other way to know for sure.

It used to be that when her father sat heavily on the side of her bed, her small body feigning sleep amid the twisted sheets beside him, a giddy feeling rose inside her, eager to trick him into believing she was asleep, yet also secretly hoping to be found out. Now she hoped he never knew.

It used to be that when he traced soft lines down her cheek with his thumb she felt safe and loved and soothed. Now she was scared, alone and desperate.

There are still nights now, despite her being twelve and therefore too old for such attentions, that her parents happen in on her in the middle of the night. Still times when she lays utterly still, feigning sleep, trying to play out a nightly ritual that made her feel so connected to them all those years ago.

But in the end, the constant state of worry and fear that everyone seemed to be in, even John and Michael to a certain extent, because they knew something was up, began to wane. After a year, she was being punished for her moody insolence yet again. She could be tired, even sick, or just plain have an off day, without anyone slipping into panic mode.

And as is typical when nothing awful happens for a period of time, the Winchesters grew rather complacent, Maya's psychic troubles and strange dreams becoming merely a nuisance rather than a focus, a part of their lives but not a true and immediate concern. So in a way it was no real surprise when things shifted and changed. Because complacency simply breeds tragedy.

Soren died alone. Two days after Maya saw him, in her mind's eye, sleeping peacefully in bed, heard his breathing go from steady and relaxed to suddenly sharp and intermittent. To gone completely.

She wrote about the dream in her journal, detailed the calm, cloaking quality of the dark, the utter stillness of the room. But she didn't tell Soren, or Bobby, or her mother or father. Not for two days, not until she was sure. Not until she hadn't heard from him for at least 24 hours, because he always responded to her emails within that frame of time, and the fact that he had not, confirmed her suspicions.

She showed the journal entry to her father that night, the night she knew that he was gone, let him read in it's entirety before saying simply, "It happened fast. He didn't feel any pain," as though that explained it all. As though inside those few words she could convey how important it was to let him die like that, knowing all too well what other sort of awful destinies might await.

The terrible, frightful, _please don't notice how scared shitless I am right now_ look took over Sam's face, stayed there for the next few days. As Bobby made some calls about Soren, discovered he'd died just as Maya dreamt. As the whole family discussed, in private amongst themselves – Sam and Sarah lying awake in bed, Dean and his brother, hunched quietly in Sam's office – and as a group in yet another _What the Hell is Going On_ Meeting.

Sarah suggested it was some sort of fluke, Maya's obvious _receptivity_ alerting her to an inevitable occurrence for a man she'd grown so close to.

The men all questioned demonic involvement – perhaps the demon was growing stronger and supplying her with additional power. Or maybe the plans he had in store for her were set to come to fruition soon, and so the gifts that once lay dormant were being called upon now.

It was Rachel – Rachel who wasn't technically either invited or permitted to be there in the first place – who said quite simply, "It's probably just that she's going through puberty." A thing which earned her several odd glares and a number _oh, yeah_ nods. Because psychic gifts often manifest themselves at these times, when the chemical and structural changes of adolescence permit them to do so.

Didn't matter really. There was no way of knowing for sure, still having little to no information on who or what this _new_ yellow-eyed demon was nor what his plans might be. All they did know, all Maya knew, was that this changed everything. Because seeing the past was one thing, an odd trip through her history as she never knew it existed. But seeing the future, seeing _her_ future, as she often _did not_ want it to be, was a different thing all together.


	17. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: It's Halloween! No, no, really it is.

* * *

The tiny foot stomping was one thing. The bitterly contorted, seemingly stern face, another all together. But when, "I'm a princess!" shoots out of her mouth, filled with more bitter indignation than any four-year-old should rightly possess, he begins to think he may have lost the battle.

Dean cringes through his fake and placating smile, ears ringing from a screech nearly the same deafening decibel as Michael's had been at her age. "Yeah," he manages, kneeling down to her level. "But wouldn't you like to be a pumpkin instead?"

Her eyes go wide, face red, and he has just enough time to process the fact that she's about to squeal again when his little girl lets out a "No!" that seems to almost shake the house. If he weren't now completely deaf, he might actually see this as funny, sweet little pink princess, complete with tutu and tiara, wailing like a banshee in front of him.

Sam certainly seems to find it amusing, looming in the doorway and stifling his laughter with the back of his gigantic hand. "What?" Dean snipes at him.

He sighs, walking over and leaning down to scoop up his namesake. "She's obviously a princess, Dean," he says, arranging the frilly tutu around her. "Let her be a princess."

"Did I ask you?"

Sam bounces his niece in his arms, delights in her high pitched giggles before responding simply with, "No, you asked her. And she told you."

Dean's _this close_ to doing or saying something he really shouldn't do or say in front of his kid – Mister Happy-Go-Lucky over there getting all up in his business – when Rachel comes bounding in with a smile just as wide and sincere as her father's. "Ready Freddie?" she asks, a bit too much enthusiasm for Dean's liking.

"My name's not Freddie," Samantha giggles as Sam hands her over to her cousin.

"Oops," she responds, "My bad." She sets her down carefully and reaches for her hand, saying in a mock gentile voice, "Shall we, Princess Samantha?"

Dean huffs a laugh and backhands his brother on the shoulder. "Dude," he says when Sam glares his way, "she asked you a question."

"Ha ha," he deadpans. "Hilarious as always."

"Anyway," Rachel draws out, "We're leaving."

Dean gives her the look, the patented _I'm trusting you with precious cargo, don't screw up_ look that he'd been giving her for the past four years since she started babysitting. "One hour," he says firmly. "And only this neighborhood. And don't let her eat any of the candy 'til I get a chance to look it over."

"Yeah," she says, struggling to hold onto the excitable little girl's hand, "I hear this year the PTA's plotting to inject all the candy with heroin to keep kids quiet in school." Dean only glares. Rachel only smiles. And Samantha only pulls on her cousin harder until they're finally out the front door.

"Dude," Sam says, head shaking with both amusement and seeming disappointment. "A pumpkin? Again?"

He waves a dismissive hand in his brother's face as he heads for the kitchen, pulls out a beer – because beer's always better when it's free, and a good _ten times_ better when you know it's your brother who's paying for it. "Shuddup," he mumbles, leaning into the counter.

"I mean, when she was a baby it was cute. But…"

"I swear to God, Sam, if you say _she's not a baby anymore_ I'm gonna hit you in the face," he claims, taking a long pull on his bottle.

Sam nods solemnly, "Yeah, I know," rolling off his tongue like an airy lament.

"She's still my pumpkin," he says with an audible pout that makes his brother laugh. "What?" he shoots, newfound smile perking his lips. "She is."

"Believe me," Sam says, "I know."

They're silent for a moment – that odd, comfortable silence that only the two of them together ever seem to share – as Dean moves over to take a seat across from Sam at the candy-covered table. He picks up a fun sized Snickers, unwraps it and shoves in his mouth before saying through chocolate, peanut, caramel, nougat _bliss_, "Where's Maya?"

Sam looks up, gives a disgusted roll of the eyes when he notices his brother reach for another candy bar. "Her soccer team put together a haunted house."

"Yeah," he tries with an even fuller mouth. "Cool."

He nods. "She's the severed head on a plate."

"You must be so proud," he says after a giant, gulping swallow.

"I am," he grins, moving to dig through the bowl of candy closest to him. He comes up with a handful of tiny bags of M&M's, slides them across the table at his brother.

"Sweet."

"Sarah'd never forget about the biggest kid." He steals a swig of Dean's beer, leans back and asks, "What about the boys? I thought you were bringing them over?"

"Ava's gonna later. It's not _cool_ to go out this early, you know. That shit's for babies."

"Nice," Sam comments with a disapproving wag of the head. He snatches up a Pixie Stick and empties the whole thing into his mouth, face contorting in a sour expression as he swallows the flavored sugar down. And he snatches up another. "Remember when Halloween was fun?"

Dean sniggers to himself. "You mean like when I made you watch Nightmare on Elm Street and then hid under the bed making scratching noises?"

"No," he says through slanted eyes, "you ass."

"Oh, then, you mean like the time we watched Children of the Corn and then drove through Nebraska, and you puked the whole way."

"I had too much candy," he retorts bitterly, emptying another Pixie Stick.

"Uh huh, suspicious how the candy only seemed to affect you when we came upon the _cornfields_."

"It was _Nebraska_, Dean. The entire state was a cornfield."

"Okay, so are you talking about the time we had a werewolf marathon and you almost shit yourself when the thing jumped through the chick's window in Silver Bullet? Because the scream you let out? Dude, that was freakin' unreal."

Sam glares at him long and hard for a moment, watching as he repeatedly pops M&Ms into his mouth, laughing around the candy coated chocolate. "I was talking about when the girls were young," he says deep and steady. "How could you ever think I was referring to when _we_ were?"

"Aw, come on, Sammy, we had fun," he says, sparing a single M&M to toss at his brother's angst-filled face.

"Dad was always totally on edge, paranoid."

"He usually wasn't even there," Dean corrects, sitting up straight, an unconscious habit whenever their father was brought up.

"Point is, for us, it wasn't like it was for other kids. I mean Dad never let us dress up or go trick-or-treating."

"You always had plenty of candy, Sammy."

"Yeah, because you hoarded your allowance all month to buy us some. We still had to stay cooped up in whatever shitty motel or rent-to-own house we were staying in at the time, constantly checking salt lines, not allowed to answer the door."

"Quit your whining," he says with a whine of his own. "We still had fun. Remember the time I stashed that bright red wig in your underwear drawer? Said a clown must have been going through your _drawers_?"

Sam's eyes go wide. "I knew that was you!" he nearly screams, both excited and horrified to have his suspicions confirmed after all these years. Because normally if Dean said he didn't do something, he didn't do it. But what were the odds a clown had managed to get past all their charms and salt lines – which should be impossible, them being pure evil and all – only to be so careless as to leave behind his hair?

"Oh, man, I don't think you ever unpacked your skivvies again, did you?" he says through rumbling laughter.

"Would you?" he replies, barely able to keep from cracking a smile himself.

"Would you, what?" they hear suddenly, Sam's face shooting up and Dean's gaze jerking around to see Sarah looming in the doorway.

"Does Sam have an underwear drawer?" he asks her innocently.

She frowns, contemplating the question. "It took me two years to convince him to unpack his _delicates_," she says slowly. "Why?"

"He was the victim of a clown voyeur," he says, reaching for another handful of candy.

Sarah swoops in and slaps his hand away, piling all the candy back into the bowls. "That explains a lot, actually," she says simply, carrying one of the bowls away, readying it for the trick-or-treaters.

"Seriously," Sam mutters once she's out of earshot, "you're an ass."

Dean reaches across the table, digs out some more M&Ms from the bowl in front of Sam, throwing cautious glances over his shoulder as he does so. "Yeah, I know."

The doorbell rings and the sounds of small children, slurred and misshapen words – _trick-tree!_ – high squeals and giggles, filter into the kitchen. This was the Halloween the boys had never known growing up. This sweet natured day for kids to be kids, for kids to be anything they wanted really, and get rewarded for their cuteness and creativity with candy. The only monsters they thought about were the ones they dressed up as or passed on the street with their parents. The only fears they carried were of cars not seeing them cross the street or crazy old ladies handing out apples with razor blades.

When Rachel was two, they celebrated their first Halloween, marked the day with more than just precaution and fear. Sam was 28, Dean 32. "She was a dog, wasn't she?" Dean asks, suddenly lost in the memory of that first time.

And Sam must know what he's talking about because he nods solemnly, correcting him only slightly by saying, "A _puppy_."

"Right," he drawls out.

"She's not dressing up tonight." He shifts in his chair. "She's going to some party later, but said she's not dressing up as anything."

"Too old?" he asks, already knowing the answer, the real reason. Because 16 is never too old to play dress up on the one day of the year you're allowed.

"I don't think so," he replies, shaking his head.

"Well, look on the bright side, you still got a head on a plate."

Sam smiles, lets out a soft chuckle. "Oh, man," he starts, clearly reminiscent quality to his voice. "Maya was always about that stuff. Blood and gore."

"I know. Remember how pissed Sarah was when we made her up as a zombie? What was she, four?"

"Something like that. And you can't really blame her. I mean, once you've seen a real one, dressing your kid up as the undead does seem kind of creepy."

"Oh, so she'd never seen a real _puppy_ before dressing Rache like one?"

Sam snickers and shakes his head, raises a brow in that childlike way he has. "At least she didn't turn her into a pumpkin."

Dean shoots him a glare, fires off another M&M at his face that Sam almost manages to catch in hie teeth. He tosses another one, this time closer, and they keep going, aiming, catching, bobbing and weaving and dodging, candy all over the wood floor.

The doorbell rings again and this time they recognize the rambunctious, "Trick-or-Treat!" Sarah squeals in delight, feigning absolute terror, and the boys hear the rhythmic _thump-thump-thump_s of clodding feet as Michael runs into the kitchen, screams in the same appallingly loud and high-pitched tone, "Boo!"

"Oh, my God," Sam says, hand slapping at his heart in mock shock. _Mostly_ mock shock.

"Did I scare you?" the ten-year-old asks, saccharine sweet quality to his voice.

Sam eyes him up and down, chances a quick glance at his father, takes in the accomplished smirk on his face. "Uh, yeah, buddy. You sure did."

John bounds in the room, lollipop hanging from his mouth and tuxedo tails trailing behind. "You!" he booms at Michael. "Back to your clown car!"

Sam smiles appreciatively. "The Ringmaster?" And John nods.

Michael smiles wide through his frowning face paint, tugs on Dean's arm and pleads, "Come on, Daddy, let's go!"

"In a minute," he says, peeling the boy's hand off and pointing him toward the door. "Go help your mother and Aunt Sarah hand out candy for a few."

"Yeah," Sam seconds, "See if you can scare any of the little kids."

"Okay!" he shouts a little too excitedly, as he takes hold of John and drags him out of the kitchen, giant red fro bouncing on his head as he bounds.

Dean turns back to his brother, coy smile and raised brows showing his satisfaction. "We're heading over to the rich neighborhood," he says in such a way that Sam can't help but laugh. "Wanna come?"

He shakes his head no, says simply, "I think you've got enough of a circus on your hands for one night."

He rises from the table, towering over his normally much larger brother, and points a finger down in his face, stern warning tone issuing out, "Don't eat too much candy. You'll make yourself sick," just like he's cautioned for years.


	18. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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"I have to pee," she whines, last word long and drawn out.

Sam doesn't so much as look up from the file in his lap, merely muttering, "No, you don't."

"Yes," she argues from behind, leaning her head over the seat, "I do."

Dean glares at her through the rearview mirror, eyes bouncing deliberately between the road and her smug face. "You just went," he tells his niece, tone terse and clipped.

"That was hours ago," she tries.

Dean turns to his brother, implores, "Sam."

To which he simply offers up a distracted warning. "Rachel."

And the distinctly 16-year-old whine returns. "Come on."

"That's it! I'm turning this car around," Dean booms in frustration. The other two in the car merely stare for a moment, shocked expressions glazing their faces. Then they both break into fits of laughter. "What?" he challenges, "Think I won't?"

"You haven't turned away from a hunt in your entire life," Sam manages. "Not once."

Rachel pipes in with a mocking, "_I'm gonna turn this car around_," prompting an even more vicious glare from her uncle.

"Yeah, well," he bites out, knuckles white on the wheel, "I've never been stuck in the car with a teenage girl for freakin' ever either." He glimpses his brother from the corner of his eye, says in an angry yet pleading tone, "I can't do it, Sam. I can't take it."

He shakes his head, tries not to laugh, because, come on, if _he_ can live with her everyday, Dean sure as Hell should be able to put up with her for a few hours. Even if she is working hard to push all his buttons at once. "You're the one who thought this'd be a good idea," he says with a shrug, laying blame right smack where it's due.

And it's true, he had been behind the idea of her going on a hunt, even if took forever for her to convince him, even if he personally was still nothing but hesitant. He had told Sam it would be fine, good for her. He hadn't taken into consideration what it would be like for him.

This was never _supposed_ to happen, not really. They'd had an agreement, all of them, Sam, Sarah, Dean and Ava, not to raise their children in that awful world that they'd been brought up in. It was decided long before they were even born. The kids wouldn't know. They'd never have to be scared of those things others assumed didn't exist, they'd never have to face the terrible realities their parents had all been privy to. Never.

But then Rachel found everything – their journals and arsenal and all that they'd been _not_ careful enough to hide. And Maya…became more like her father. And while Samantha was too young to know anything, and the boys were mostly out of the loop, they all knew that that initial agreement, the promise they'd made to their kids before they ever even were, could never be kept.

Even so, Dean was stunned at how quickly Sam had agreed to this weekend jaunt, he being the one who was so adverse to the idea of his daughter even being trained and taught for hunting purposes. Dean had the feeling that if he would have suggested taking Rachel out on a hunt just a couple of years ago, Sam would have kicked his ass for even putting those two words – _Rachel _and _hunt_ – in the same sentence.

But, he suspected, things changed when Maya developed abilities. Now there are times that he can see his father's face clearly in that of his little brother, that same concerned scowl, same distracted grin. Like he's always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like in the meantime he'll do whatever he can to protect his family, help his children learn how to protect themselves, for when it finally does.

Maya started training with him just after they all found out about her dreams. It was a precaution everyone felt necessary to take. Rachel helped, mostly with the research aspect, explaining to her what was what – _No, they _do_ exist, I swear._ – and what needed to be done to guard one's self against – _Why would it have to be kosher salt? That doesn't even make sense._ But Maya was about as good at that sort of stuff as she was at her sixth grade studies – that being, not very.

On the physical end, she excelled. Aside from being increasingly clumsy, giant limbs having recently gone through yet another growth spurt now putting her eye to eye with her older sister, she knew how to carry herself when it mattered. There were times the girl could barely walk without tripping over her own two feet, but a sweep kick combination was no problem. And she was coachable, a brilliant surprise for Dean who'd only ever known her to be stubborn and hardheaded, like her father. Maybe it had to do with her being in organized sports since she was four, but the minute the lessons began, she was all ears, ready and eager to learn and please.

Rachel was the exact opposite. Knowing his nieces as well as he did he never really thought they were that much alike, Rachel being more outgoing and buoyant, Maya quiet and gloomy. Rachel loved kids, people in general, even when she was annoyed with them there was still this underlying ease and comfort in being around others. Maya was standoffish, uncomfortable in large groups, wary in intimate settings. Where Rache had too many friends to keep track of, Maya had only one of any consequence – John – all others floating aimlessly in the periphery, mere acquaintances, team or schoolmates. Even in their looks and demeanor, though at first glance they were clearly sisters, the older they got, the more they changed.

But it wasn't until he started working with both of them that he really saw how different they were. Though Maya was typically quiet and moody, making her silences and avoidance seem like some sort of misanthropic necessity, Dean now saw that she was simply more introspective, more visceral. She wouldn't open up and talk about something, no matter how small or unimportant, until she had first figured it all out on her own. And even then, half the time she'd say nothing, forcing him to pry inquiries out her, because if she couldn't do it all on her own, she seemed reluctant, even scared to say so.

And Rachel, always so much more of a go-getter, seeming so much more controlled and ready and up for the next thing. She was seldom reluctant to ask for help, too often talk, talk, talking her way through things, never wary of having someone around to spitball with. For her it wasn't about wanting to please or succeed. She didn't have that stubborn pride like her sister, or that fear that if she couldn't do something on her own everyone would be disappointed in her. That didn't matter. For Rachel the consequences were always much more dire, her having a sense that if she could not do something, grasp something, well enough, she would be letting everyone down in a way that could very well impact life and death. It was nothing to admit she needed a bit of help every now and then when the people she loved were at stake.

It wasn't until Dean started working with them both, seeing how easily certain things came to Maya and how desperately she struggled with others, that he noticed how difficult so much of this was for Rachel. And more importantly, how hard she worked, quietly and unbeknownst to him, to get better. Especially with the physical training.

Rachel had always been in shape, the younger Winchester household sticking to a healthy lifestyle, always with fruits and veggies packing the fridge and suggestions of long walks or trips to the park when boredom struck. But she was never really _athletic_, never played sports for more than a season at a time – soccer when she was eight, basketball at nine, lacrosse at thirteen and so on. Dean always figured, sexist or not, that certain moves she just _could not_ get, certain combinations that simply _would not_ work, were simply the result of her being a girl, having other _anatomical_ issues that might impact her abilities. Truth is, kick boxing and Krav Maga simply weren't her strong suites. But she worked at them anyway, perfected her technique no matter how long it took, no matter how lacking it may be in areas. All in all, Rachel was truly, wholeheartedly committed. Which is why he finally gave into this whole ridiculous idea of taking her on a hunt in the first place.

It was when she said, "I want to be ready," without a hint of hesitation or fear. "I want to be ready when whatever is going to happen, happens," her words carrying the weight of that heavy implication, that things would not stay so calm and peaceful in their family forever. That even they, the adults, the parents, the trained hunters, would not be able to safeguard their children indefinitely. Whether they liked it or not, whether any of them felt capable of admitting it or not, their lives would never be the same, not now that the demon, or _a_ demon at least, had found them and theirs. Not now that Maya had the sight her father had always cursed.

So when she said those words, something inside of Dean shifted, because he really hadn't thought about it before, _her_ being ready. For _this_. Even though it made perfect sense. Even though she'd made it perfectly clear all along that her main reason for training and learning was to be prepared should she have to take of the little ones. Even though he encouraged Maya to tell her the truth, even now, encouraged her to share things with her older sister – _She might be able to help._ He never really thought she'd ever have to.

"I want to go on a hunt," she'd told him, voice steady, face stiff with resolve. "I have to know what it's like."

He couldn't help it, without even thinking the word, "No," fell from his lips with harsh finality.

But she pushed the issue, over and over again for weeks, months. "It would be good practice," offered up with so much sincerity it made his heart break.

But still his answer was, "No."

She tried another tactic, ridiculing him endlessly, pushing his buttons 'til he might relent. "What are you scared I'm gonna show you up? Scared I'll kick a little more ass than you, old man?"

And his lips might have twitched into an annoyed little smirk, but his response was the same. "No."

When she actually begged, tears in her eyes, _begged_ him to let her to do it, because she simply _needed_ to, he felt his resolve weaken. "You're not ready," he'd told her softly, which even she took as progress, enough of an opening to work with.

"Tell me what to do," she'd said. "Tell me what I need to work on."

And he did, even made up a test, both written and physical, one he was sure she wouldn't pass.

But she did.

"It's too dangerous," was his next reason. "You could get hurt." To which she scoffed and rolled her eyes in all too Winchesterian fashion, informing him that that was bull. She could get hurt anytime, anywhere. Like say, at the mall, tripping over a shoelace and careening down the escalator.

When he laughed, reminded of the fairly recent incident that resulted in a broken arm, and told her that a person that clumsy had no right holding a gun, let alone firing one, she spent six straight hours doing target practice. Until nearly every shot was dead on.

Having no more legitimate excuses, because she wouldn't buy the utter truth – _You just _can't – he did what he always did when the girls wouldn't listen to him growing up, he blamed their father. "He wouldn't like it," he'd said, with a firm and knowing shake of the head. "I'm telling you, he'd be pissed as hell that we're even talking about it."

She merely cocked an evil brow at him and said, "So now you're scared of your little brother?"

But Sam wasn't pissed as Hell. In fact, she'd managed to talk him into it even before Dean himself had been fully convinced. She knew her father, of course, knew just what to say, no flattery or puppy dog eyes would work on him. He was a realist, at his core maybe even a bit of a pessimist, the kind of person who was always waiting for the next awful thing to come along, never truly believing that it's the nature of the world to have things work out. So it really didn't take a lot to get him to see how important it was for her, for all of them really, to be prepared. It was a necessary evil.

It was Sam who found the job, a simple salt and burn a few states over, one that they likely would have overlooked in their semi-retirement, opting rather for quick jobs close to home or ones requiring such expertise they felt no others could handle them. But this one seemed perfect, just the right job to show Rache the ropes while also posing only a minimal amount of danger.

They eased their wives concerns, assuring them both it was perfectly safe, assuring them both that this was not going to evolve into any sort of pattern or routine. And they lied to their other children, even Maya, whom they figured would beg and plead to come along, saying they were off to visit a couple of colleges, plant that seed of higher education in the 16-year-old's mind.

It all had seemed, once they hit the road anyway, like a fairly good idea, like it might have actually been the right decision after all. But then Rachel started in on Dean during breakfast, chiding him for eating so much fried food, asking if he knew how many calories were in those pancakes he was smothering with extra butter and syrup.

Then, not an hour later, she got a call on her cell, some random friend whom she felt the need to chatter on endlessly with – the conversation really only lasted about five minutes, but in high-pitched teenage _oh my God, he said what? You're kidding!_ time, it went on _forever_.

And now, _this_.

"Seriously," she tries again. "Just pull over somewhere, side of the road. I don't care, I'm not picky. I just have to _go_."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before your fourth cup of coffee," Sam chides with a wide smile.

"Dad," she whines in protest, leg visibly jackhammering underneath her.

Dean huffs, more than fed up. "What is with you? Are you on your period or something?"

Sam gasps, "Dean," falling from his lips in a horrified reproach.

"Yes, Uncle Dean," Rachel deadpans, rolling her eyes at her idiot relative. "I'm on my period. That's why I'm telling you to pull over on the side of the road, because what I really want most in this world is to squat down in some ditch and change a tampon while my father and uncle watch."

Sam, face now entirely devoid of color, lets out a desperate sounding, "Rachel!" just as Dean jerks the wheel of the car towards the shoulder, sending it skidding and shuddering to a violent stop.

"Thank you," Rachel tosses over her shoulder as she quickly hops out of the back and takes off in search of cover.

"Didn't do it for you," he mumbles, mostly to himself. Then, in a near whisper, "Think I'm gonna puke."

Sam turns to his brother slowly, stares at him dumbfounded for one long moment before, "Asshole," drips from his tight lips amid a flurry of half-hearted punches.

Yeah, this was a _great_ idea.

The hunt was supposed to be pretty straightforward, open and shut. Simple salt and burn. As though anything in their lives had ever been _simple_.

But the angry spirit haunting the high school's theatre – yeah, apparently it really can happen, two injured students and one dead Drama teacher as proof – wasn't the jilted Homecoming Queen who'd drank herself to death at the close of last year, despite what Sam and Dean thought. Rachel, of course, "totally could have told you that," long before they went to dig up, pry open, and burn to ash her remains. Had they consulted her, that is.

But of course they hadn't, for some reason deciding to leave her out of that part of the hunt, as though all she had wanted to do on this little foray into the supernatural world was to dig up and burn some bones. And it wasn't until they broke into the theatre that night, the one that had been closed off for nearly a week now, ever since the fatal accident involving _falling_ sets, that they realized their mistake.

There had been reports, made mostly by students, and really kids can't be trusted to know what they see or hear, that someone or some_thing_ had been back there, crying and quietly murmuring to herself just before props took off flying across the auditorium, the intricately painted landscaped Alps crashing down upon Maria and Captain Von Trapp, and Mrs. Vossi, the sadly smushed drama teacher. There were also rumors that the cries and whispers could be heard everyday following, despite the theatre being locked down.

Dean explained that it was just good business to go back to the haunted place to investigate, make sure that the malignant spirit was truly gone, before skipping town. And he said it all with a hint of arrogance, a superior, _not that we really have to because we always get the job done, and get it done right_ lilt. Which made it all the more humorous when his EMF meter started going haywire in his palm.

They never saw a thing, no ghost or apparition – which, truthfully, made her kind of mad, coming all this way and still seeing nothing – but when the lights they never turned on began to flicker, spotlight sweeping aimlessly across the stage without anyone in the balcony to guide it, and the sound system emitted a nasty high-pitched squeal, they decided to go. Better safe than sorry, even if whatever haunted that place didn't want to do them any harm, even if all the faux mountains had already fallen and the danger of catching a wildly flung Styrofoam boulder seemed minimal, the last thing either Sam or Dean wanted was to get caught breaking and entering with their teenaged daughter/niece.

Dean muttered absently to himself – _what the hell? I don't get it. _– on and on as they checked into a hotel. She could still hear him going on, thinking and arguing out loud as he got into the shower, filthy from grave digging. Sam played his typical role as researcher, sitting down at the table, opening up his laptop and working through what went wrong, what was it he had missed?

Rachel, for her part, only sat on the corner of one of the beds, silently contemplating, trying to figure out why exactly they had been so convinced it was the Homecoming Queen to begin with. "I mean, it makes no sense," she says finally, coming up with nothing but frustration.

"She's the only one at the school who's died within the last three years," Sam defends wearily, never good at taking criticism.

"Yeah, but, a Homecoming Queen?" she questions, disbelief wrinkling her nose and furrowing her brow. "I read up on this girl, and she barely even went to school, didn't belong to any clubs, never participated in any activities. Dad," she says pointedly, making sure he's paying attention. His eyes crawl up to meet hers and she says, "This girl wouldn't be caught dead anywhere near the school's theatre. Pun intended."

Sam's tempted to let it go, brush it off, what does she know anyway, she's never done this before. He did all the research, compiled everything, just like he's been doing for countless cases throughout the decades, since long before she was ever even born. He's right. He knows it. Maybe they hit the wrong grave, or there's something else out there she's tied to. But it's her.

Only it's not. He realizes that when he glances up at his daughter, sees the odd, knowing sparkle in her eye, that _I've got it_ look on her face. He recognizes it from Sarah actually, the glint being identical to the one she gets whenever the answer to a certain puzzle finally comes to her. He's spent the last twenty years trusting that look, knowing that it's never been wrong to date.

"There's no one else, Rache," he says, more a challenge than a chide.

She moves over to the table across from him, turns the laptop to face her and starts Googling away. "Maybe you were just looking in the wrong place," she tells him lightly.

The corner of his mouth twists up into a coy grin, mixture of curiosity and pride, as he asks, "How do you mean?"

She shrugs. "You looked for people who were part of the school who died. Most kids in high school don't give a crap about theatre." She stops short, glances up to catch his disapproving, _watch your mouth_ glare before going on. "There could be people in the community who support the arts, or just plain like high school plays, parents of kids in the drama club."

Sam's face suddenly twists, brow furrowing. "Former drama students," he breathes out, thought just coming to him. But when he looks over at his daughter he can see that she's been thinking it all along, simply waiting for him to catch up.

She turns the computer toward him, an obituary blanketing the screen. "Carol Mays," she says triumphantly. "Graduated two years ago, went on to Vassar where she hung herself from her dorm room bunk bed."

"Hanged," he corrects absently, skimming the article before him. Mays was a typical drama dork in high school, _best known for her stunning portrayal of Laura in Tennessee William's __The Glass Menagerie_. "Huh," he mutters once he's done. "Seems like everybody in this town knew her as the kid who liked to act."

"Maybe it was the only thing that made her happy," Rachel suggests. "Maybe that's why she wanted to come back."

Sam looks up at his daughter, wide smile taking over his face. "That's not bad, Rache," he says simply, his eyes showing so much more. "Not bad at all."

It's hell to convince Dean to head back out across town to another cemetery, to dig up another body, all in the same night, and mostly only on a hunch. But they manage, Sam being convinced his kid knows what she's talking about. And when they return to the theatre the next day, surprise, surprise, not so much as a bleep on the EMF, or a tingly feeling at the base of their spines.

So she was right, her first hunt a success. And yet, for some reason, she seems compelled to mope aimlessly for nearly a week after, taking little pride or joy in her achievement. All she can think about is the girl's obit picture, the smiling face of someone so sad and confused, innocent. All she wanted was a way out, and all she got was more and more lost.

And _yes_, she was harming others and had to be stopped as a result. And _yes_, by burning her bones, putting her to rest, no matter what sort of rest it might be, they had probably done her a favor as well. And _yes_, she, Rachel, had done a good job, figured it all out rather easily, _like a natural_, her uncle had said, and she should be satisfied with herself. But the fact of the matter is, they killed that girl, all over again. It needed to be done, that's true, she'd never argue that. But she can't find it within herself to take joy in a thing that is by its very nature a _necessary evil_.

Because when it comes right down to it, evil is still just that: evil.


	19. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Summary: They grow up so fast. Sniffle.

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Growing old wasn't so bad, not for any of them. Maybe they simply had good genes, Sam and Dean coming from a man who looked thirty-five when he was ready to hit senior citizen status, Sarah being regal enough in her classic beauty to somehow manage to appear more graceful, more at ease with herself the older she became. And Ava, well Ava was simply too much of a child at heart to ever be able to truly grow old.

And let's be honest, maybe they didn't train in the same severe way they had as children and young adults, but old habits are hard to break and semi-retired or not, a man always has to be at his best in preparation for what's to come. So they're still in shape, still look good, still _feel _good – aside from all those aches and pains from injuries long since past that flare up and take an even harsher toll now than ever before. But no one talks about that.

They live their lives, it seems, in much the same way they had ten or twenty years ago, waking at the same general hour, working just as hard as ever, if only on different things. Not being any more tired or haggard or listless than they had been in their twenties.

There's only one thing that can make them feel old. One thing and one thing only: the idea of their children growing up.

Sam, having two teenagers to Dean's one, had the unfortunate luck of being on the receiving end of many more _they're so grown up, that must mean I'm ancient_ moments – like when unpacking the groceries and stumbling over multiple boxes of tampons. Or the time he found a bra, seemingly Sarah's, same size and all, with cartoon characters on it and he laughed and poked fun at her only to realize that the piece of underwear he held actually belonged to his youngest daughter. Or when Rachel learned to drive, taking every lesson so seriously right up until the moment she waved her new license in his face with a wide and joyful grin.

But those moments were typically quick and fleeting, a pause between the beats of his heart, a reminiscent ache in his chest.

_This_ was different.

Oh sure, it had been funny and cute when they were young, grade school romances meaning nothing more than holding hands on the playground and crying over _awful_ break-ups. Though, admittedly, even those were hard on Sam, the kids in question being his _daughters_ and all. But real, actual dating, boys showing up on his doorstep putting on a nervous show, acting decent enough, responsible and kind enough to be deserving of his girls? _That_ was painful.

Rachel, he only found out after the fact, had been turning guys down left and right for years, knowing she wasn't allowed to date until sixteen and not being particularly swayed enough by any of them to try and get around that rule. She'd told her mother, told her aunt, even discussed it on occasion with her uncle. But Sam never knew, never looked close enough to realize that his kid was _hot_. He never paid attention to the manly eyes that always seemed pointed at his daughter, or the nervous boys who'd hang around her on the few occasions he'd picked her up from school.

Whether it was a subconscious move on his part to be so blind, or simply part of his often distracted nature, Sam wasn't aware that Rachel was interested in guys until the day before she was set to go on her first real date. With a six-foot-two football player named Ray.

"Football? Seriously?" he had asked, a forced laugh in his voice.

"He's nice," she said quickly, seeming uncomfortable. "And he's smart. And I _like_ him," she said, making his stomach turn.

The good news was, at six-four, Sam was bound to tower over any boy his girls brought home, even if he was one of the biggest kids in school. And really, whether he aimed for _scare the shit out of the kid _or not, he'd been in enough serious binds in his life to have that worn and weathered, unafraid look about him that would intimidate even the most confident of grown men. After _meeting_ Ray, he knew that just enough fear had been instilled in the young man to keep him civil.

Not that it really mattered, their first date was also their last, Rachel declaring with a roll of her eyes that he was simply, "too boring and completely self-involved. And who cares about football anyway?"

She had more important things to do than get involved in _serious romantic crises_, she had told her parents once. And though she still went on the occasional date, dressed up for the occasional dance, she never really seemed serious about any boy.

Until now.

He was a year older than her and had pretty blond hair and pretty blue eyes that were just too _pretty_ to spell anything other than disaster. And though he was a good two inches shorter than her – a thing that never went unnoticed by her uncle, Dean always asking after her little albino munchkin friend – he carried himself with such confidence and esteem when around her that it made Sam want to cry. Or simply beat him down a few notches.

But the worst, absolute _worst_ thing about him, Sam realized only now – thinking before that the worst thing was that he simply had _hands_ and other…_things_ – was that he had a friend for Maya.

"No way in Hell," he hears himself say, not even realizing the words had formed in his mouth, his senses being too dulled by the idea of his fourteen-year-old _baby_ wanting to go out with an 18-year-old…ruffian. "No."

"Dad," she sighs, only a hint of whine to her voice, "He's a really good guy. You'd like him."

Sam looks, wide-eyed, over at his wife, implores her with an all too horrified expression to _say something_.

"Maya," she starts simply, dropping her voice into that firm, _no arguments_ tone, "Even if you _were_ old enough to date, you still wouldn't be old enough to date _him_."

She rolls her eyes, shifts in her seat. "That rule's ridiculous. What is this, 1997? C'mon."

_1997_, he thinks, brows furrowing in confusion. _1997?_ That's when_ he _was fourteen. She's using _that_ as a time of antiquity?!

They tell her no again. _No, no, no._ They tell Rachel. They tell Hal – yeah, _that's_ his name – when he comes by to _hang_. "Keep him away," Sam says low and dangerous, entirely without preface.

And later it almost seems funny. Almost. To Dean it seems funny anyway, his laughter filtering through the phone that night when Sam calls, having to relay the awful details to someone. "Dude, that's classic," he spits between guffaws. "_Keep him away._"

"It's not funny, Dean. Seriously."

He stops laughing just long enough to reassure his brother. "Aw, don't worry so much Sammy. If she does try to see him, I'll take him out back and shoot him," he says, just enough of a promise to his voice that Sam counts it as sincere.

"I mean," he says, moving on, "she's fourteen."

"Yeah, I was there for her birthday party," he chimes.

"She's a baby."

"Dude, I was fourteen the first time I got laid." There's a startled silence on the phone, Dean realizing just what he's said as Sam tries to keep his enraged words to himself long enough for his brother to apologize. "She's not me, though," he rushes out. "I mean, no way would she…she's not even allowed to date. And…like I said, the guy would be dead."

Sam shakes his head on the other end, a gesture that he's sure his brother can sense even if he can't see it. And he tries to write the whole thing off as Dean being a dick, not knowing how to get a grip on that whole mind-mouth barrier. But what he said is true. Hell Sam was only a year older than that when he lost his virginity – shh, don't tell Dean, he thinks it was two later with some blond in Nebraska.

"We are _so_ old," he mourns into the mouthpiece.

"What?" Dean scoffs. "We are not."

He tells him what she said about 1997, but Dean doesn't seem to find it half as disturbing as he had, responding only with a _psh_ and, "I'll knock some sense into that girl."

It occurs to him that maybe his brother doesn't see the gravity of all this because, though he's the older sibling, his kids are younger. It just hasn't hit him is all. "You won't be laughing when your kids start having sex," he grumbles out, the awful implication of those words nearly too much to bear.

"First of all, shut up. Second of all, they're not having sex. Maya wanted to go on a date and you told her no."

"And Rachel?" he asks, mentally slapping himself for putting the image in his head.

Dean's silent for a minute, ruminating over the best way to handle this. Because Rache and Hal have been together for almost six months and he can't imagine, man-whore or no, being eighteen and in a six-month long relationship and _not_ having sex. "Rachel's smart," he says finally, all he has to say and all Sam needs to hear.

"Yeah," Sam sighs. Then, "I still say it'll be different when it's your kids. Especially if they're anything like you," he says with a coy grin.

Dean snorts out a laugh. "Like Michael, you mean?"

Sam chuckles himself, asks, "How many girlfriends is he up to now?"

"Dude's got a freakin' harem," he says with a smile. Easy to smile about it now, even at twelve, Michael's young at heart, a big goofy kid who sees nothing out of the ordinary in confiding in his father. Dean knows just how far all of his relationships have gone, the first kiss milestone just having been passed with a sweet little _seventh__grader_ named Sally.

"He is quite the ladies man," Sam says with an audible smirk.

"Yeah he is," he agrees. "And _then_ there's John."

Sam shakes his head absently, thinks about the _talk_ he had with his eldest nephew just a few short weeks ago. "And then there's John," he confirms.

Dean didn't know about their little heart-to-heart, John had asked him not to tell, so he wasn't about to now, not even when Dean says, a mocking quality to his voice, "Just like his uncle."

And Sam smiles, realizing just how right he is. Because neither he nor John may be typical ladies men, neither has had nor particularly wants floozy women draping themselves helplessly in their paths. And yeah, the kid _looks_ just about as awkward as Sam _felt_ when he was his age, which was _pretty damn awkward_. But that doesn't mean either are as inept and inexperienced as Dean seems to think.

No one knows about Helen Reyes except Sam. No one knows that John's _dating_ her – because of course, technically he's not old enough to date, the rule standing for all Winchester children regardless of gender, despite Dean's protests that when it comes to dating, certain considerations should be made. No one knows that he's already rounded second base with her, and only decided to hold off on bypassing third, heading straight for home, after talking to his uncle.

Because, "I really like her," isn't reason enough. And, "I might love her," implies he also might not.

Sam agreed not to tell Dean or Ava about his little tryst so long as _he_ agreed to keep it in his pants where it belonged. And John, still tender enough to blush and cringe despite nearly looking the part of a man, had dropped his head and murmured an, "Okay."

"What was that?" Sam had asked, eager for actual confirmation.

The boy's head rose, eyes locking in somber sincerity with his uncle when he said, "We won't…_do_ anything."

"And you'll talk to me, right? About whatever you need to or want to. About sex. Right?" Sam questioned in his most firm tone. And he decided, whether it was really his place to make that kind of decision or not, to keep the boy's romance a secret – his reason for the secrecy being so easy for Sam to understand, "They'll _ooo_ and _aaah_ and make fun." – the minute he nodded his head in absolute approval.

Normally, _never trust a teenager_ was a rule to live by, for anyone. But if ever there was an exception to that rule it was John.

"He's a good kid," he says aloud, though the dreamy words were really meant more for himself. And Dean must sense it, must sense that there's something going on inside of their conversation that he's not been made privy to, because he makes no sound on the other line. Sam can almost _hear_ his brother's eyes narrowing in that _what aren't you telling me?_ fashion. So he changes the subject a bit with, "Ten years from now Samantha's gonna make you put a gun to your head. I can see it now."

Dean groans loudly, a wordless confirmation that _yeah, duh_. Because she's got a little too much of her father's cockiness in her and not quite enough of his moral barometer. She's spoiled freakin' rotten, can get away with murder, and she _knows it_.

"I can hardly wait," Sam laughs into the phone, feeling, for the first time all day, like a young man once more. Younger than his brother at the very least.


	20. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: You're gonna hate me. I know it. But I promise, I have a plan. Sort of.

* * *

Death was a thing that never came particularly easy for the Winchesters. Born fighters, and known prey, the two brothers had had more meetings with death than most entire families, throughout the generations.

How many times had each of them stared the monster down, eye to eye, and been the victor set to walk away? How many times had their lives been spared, all at once, in the heat of the moment, by some unnamable, unknowable force – a bullet meant for one's heart turning at a pass, missing flesh entirely? A hurled object, heavy and solid and moving at a quick enough speed to spell certain death for any other man, slowed and dulled on impact.

But even with all that good fortune, all of luck's advances steadily bestowed upon them, they were never anything but cocky, consistently cheating the system, taking advantage of both good and ill will.

That healer in a tent, who was really no healer at all. Their own father, laying the foundation, setting the example, by laying down his sword and his life for his child. And Dean, even after earning two passes from certain death, trading it all in so his brother's heart might beat again. That deal too, like so many men like them are prone to make, was nullified, leaving both the lucky bastards alive and intact, weasels for another day.

They lied and they cheated, all under the guise of self-preservation. Ran from cops and feds set on locking them up, tossing away the key. Fought off all the many evil things that go bump in the night, sparing others, saving themselves, screwing with the balance. But what did they care? They were safe and alive, content in the knowledge that all had worked out for them. For the Winchesters it seemed, even in the ripest of situations, everything would work out in the end.

Only if that were really true, then they wouldn't be gathered around this gravesite today, wouldn't be drowning in heavy woolen suits among dozens of black-clad mourners. They wouldn't be forced to stand, tall and staunch, stiff and straight, as pillars for their wives, their remaining children.

If everything really did work out for them in the end, then this would not truly _be_ her end.

The whole thing was insane, ridiculous. It almost made them want to laugh. Because they'd made it through everything, even that which was never thought possible. They survived ghosts, and werewolves, and demons. Vampires and black dogs and…car wrecks. They'd seen death first hand, Death Itself, felt its icy fingertips tug at their souls. And each time they'd managed to beat it back, emerge unscathed.

Not this time.

There were a million and one ways that they could blame themselves. They'd grown complacent in their perfect little world, they'd forgotten how awful life can be. And the universe chose this manner in which to remind them. And they'd cheated death themselves, so many times, no wonder she got so pissed off that she decided to go for someone they love – no, not even that word could describe it, what was felt, what will always be felt, for a child.

He should have said no that night, told her she had homework or chores or some sort of responsibility that outweighed the desire to have fun. He should have proclaimed distrust for that boy, ordered her not to see him, ever again. He should have taught her better, how to drive, not to speed, _be careful_. They'd said it every time one of their children left the house. _Be careful_.

But just saying the words would never be safeguard enough.

But she was a good driver, despite her age. She obeyed the rules of the road, slowed at yellow instead of slamming the gas, rarely tailgated, always used a signal. She was _careful_. And she had every right to have fun, a party once in a blue moon. Her grades were up, attitude in check – she deserved it. And so much of that improvement, it seemed, stemmed from her month-long involvement with _that boy_, Joe, the one they begrudgingly liked, if only because they always figured she'd go for someone so much worse.

But according to Joe – information second hand, of course, since neither Sam nor Dean could speak with him directly, being uncertain as to whether or not they could control the urge to break every one of his bones, rip them clean from his body – the party was _not_ fun. Because they had fought, she informing him that it was over, saying simply, "Find another ride home," and leaving in a flurry.

Then she drove into a concrete embankment going somewhere around eighty.

She'd missed curfew before, on occasion, late by an hour at the most – a tortuous hour of _what-if_s for her parents always resulting in a tortuous _month_ of grounding for her. But she'd never been late while out with Joe, usually made it back early in fact. That was almost certainly due to her father's short but explicit _talk_ with the young man, wherein, face stern and voice low and deep he had said, "I'm trusting you," the implication of which rang clear as a bell in the kid's head. _Break that trust, and I'll break your neck._

She was only twenty minutes past curfew, just long enough for her parents to be angry but not yet truly worried, when the phone rang. And their world fell apart.

They told them there had been an accident involving their daughter, not even relaying what type, saying only that she'd been injured. They needed to come to the hospital right away. They could say no more over the phone.

He knew then, and so did she, though neither said a word, admitting the awful truth being akin to an even more devastating betrayal. Because, no matter what they might have known, what they _felt_ was more important.

_Hope_, because the alternative was unthinkable.

There was no time to make any calls, foggy minds not even allowing them to think to. There was no healer to mend her broken body, no way to find one. There was no crossroad near enough to rush out to, beg for a trade they all knew wouldn't be honored in the first place.

There was nothing.

The doctors spoke in soft tones laced with practiced sincerity as they said, "We're so sorry. There was nothing we could do." Relaying images of television shows, actor doctors, not the real thing. It was all fiction. Only not.

When they heard, "She died on impact," – _died? _– followed with, "She felt no pain," they both sensed the ground give way beneath them, that small comfort being none at all.

The rest of existence – quiet murmurs from the corner of the too bright, too still corridor, the doctor's voice still echoing off the ecru walls, the beating of their own hearts, surprisingly steady despite being torn in two – fell away in that moment, left them as two marooned strangers on a desert island, the size and likeness of Hell.

He's the one who identifies her body, travels behind a too young intern at a too quick pace. He's the one who travels _down, down, down_, into the bowels of the hospital, where all their failures are stored, kept on ice to preserve the pain.

He doesn't break down when he sees her, pale and gray and still on the other side of the thick paned glass. He doesn't even notice the odd dent in her skull, the slight bruises that never got a chance to swell, cuts that were cleaned and could no longer ooze. He doesn't notice anything except the contour of her face, the gentle, sloping profile that's so like him, so like her, yet all her own.

He'd recognized her anywhere, the flesh and bones and sinew all perfectly mapped in human form, a relief of his love and his life, a beautiful embodiment of his all. His lips quirk into an oddly serene smile, because no matter how still and stiff and pale, she's still beautiful, still his.

The intern says only, "Mr. Winchester?" so quiet he can barely hear. And without turning away, he nods.

The funeral is four days later. Four days of living in a fog. Four days of too many phone calls – because they had wanted their children to have _real_ lives, with school and friends and activities galore. So there are calls coming in, from teachers and coaches and parents of friends, all sounding devastated, all sounding relieved, because it wasn't _their_ girl.

And there are calls going out, rough explanations to bosses and clients, explaining why work would be impossible. Making appointments and arrangements – coroner, funeral home, florist, police. And then there's family, of which there seems to be so little left. A message left for Jo. A heart wrenching call to Bobby.

It's four days of wandering the halls at night, pressing prone ears up against thick doors, straining to hear heavy shuddering breaths, the occasional slight snore. Silence.

It's four days of tearless eyes, pained and strained by all that's not let loose, choked back endlessly. Because it's a notorious Winchester trait. Strength, fortitude. Stubborn denial.

It's four days of people sneaking into her room when no one's looking, letting their fingers dance lightly over the stuffed animal remnants of her childhood, plaques and ribbons and trophies and rock band posters from an adolescence cut short. Her mother sits hidden in the closet, inhaling her scent from the clothes. Her father, late at night, rests precariously on the very edge of her bed, careful not to move, as though she were still sleeping right there beside him.

It's four days of hopes fading, dreams dissipating, plans breaking, and lives changing. Four days of trying to go on, thinking about breathing, forgetting the days when such a thing came naturally.

It's four days of fighting, arguing, about nothing at all. About the grass needing to be cut before people come over. About whether to wear black or bright colors, mourn or celebrate, as though any of them really had a choice. About where people should send donations, or flowers, or nothing at all. About anything and everything except the obvious: wanting her back, and having no way to get her.

It's Dean who finally speaks, once the four days are nearly up, dressed in that heavy woolen suit he hasn't even seen in years, buried so far back in the depths of his closet. He waits until he and Sam are alone, sitting in the silence that was once so easy and comfortable for the two of them to share, now pained and echoing of a loss unacknowledged.

"I can do it again," he says, voice rough with unshed tears, unshown emotion. "I'll do it again," voice firm with resolve, heady with the knowledge that he simply _can't_.

If either had known back then, decades ago when they tirelessly researched, finally found, a way to break free of his deal with the demon. If either had known that it would have resulted in an inability to ever forge another – because who would make such a deal with men proven to be unfaithful in keeping up their ends? If…

Sam shakes his head. _No._

"We could try," he pleads, breaking with the effort to keep from coming apart.

But she's dead and gone, and as much as he doesn't want to admit, can't quite bring himself to truly believe it, Sam _knows_ she's not coming back. There are no words good enough, true enough, right enough, convincing enough to travel through his lips. So he simply shakes his head again.

"Sam," he replies, a question, plea, and chide all rolled into one familiar syllable. When no response is heard, he looks over at his brother, beaten posture slumping him in his chair. "Sam," he repeats, louder, demanding, still resulting in nothing. He rises quickly, jumps up so fast and hard that the chair's nearly knocked out from under him, and with a face so tight and screwed and angry he yells, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sam looks up, eyes half hidden under a curtain of consistently too long hair. And he says, voice soft and steady and firm despite its barely having been used for days, "My daughter is dead, Dean. My baby's gone." And then he too rises, though so much slower, as though barely capable of movement at all, and he traipses up the stairs. Up to the empty room on the left.

It's four days 'til the funeral, and then it's the rest of their lives.


	21. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: Oh the bitter, horrid angst!

* * *

The sound of silence, in all its unacknowledged emptiness, utter solemnity, seemed the most deafening. Now that the phone had stopped ringing and all mourners had gone, returned to their normal lives, moved on.

Now that Bobby had finally gone home, an awful and somber task, him knowing that the silence of his own empty house would only exacerbate the terrible _lack_ of her voice they'd all been feeling for over a week now. And now that Dean and Ava and their kids were at the very least _sleeping_ at their own house, one or all still filtering in throughout the days and nights, just to check, just to be near. Now, the walls seemed to echo with nothing.

Sarah cried. All the time. For the first few days she did nothing but plan, plan, plan. She picked out the outfit for her daughter, a navy blue silk dress that Ava had bought her on a whim last year, saying she just knew it'd be perfect with her complexion, her relatively new curves, her long legs and long arms and…and she'd been right.

Maya only wore it once, to Dean's fiftieth birthday party last month.

She'd been frantic, Sarah, about finding just the right casket, even though they'd decided, as though there were ever any question in a family like theirs, that she'd be cremated. And she broke two different phones, on two different occasions, hurling them into walls when anger overtook her. Once when the florist informed her that this time of year, where they were, finding blue water lilies would be virtually impossible. Only _some_ of the profanity so uncharacteristically spewed from her lips, did he hear, the handset crashing into several large pieces before she ever even got out the _go fuck yourself_.

She made some calls around, after calming down a bit, finally getting a hold of an old friend in New York who told her not to worry, they had everything out there and she'd get some shipped right away. Which was good, better than good really, for a while there Sarah thought she might have to cancel the funeral. Blue Lotus being the only flower her daughter ever really claimed to have liked, roses being too cliché, other lilies somehow boring or morose, daisies nothing but a weed.

The other phone incident occurred following a conversation with Maya's soccer coach wherein the man expressed his grief, said how much he'd miss her, and told Sarah, the most awful thing she'd heard from any of the dozens of mourners to date, "She was so good, had so much potential. Coach Robertson's already told me how sorry he is that he won't get to work with her." Coach Robertson being one of the premier coaches in the nation, one Maya hadn't stopped talking about since she was twelve and first began to dream about going to his youth soccer camp.

It was a highly selective program. She never told anyone she'd gotten in.

But once all the arrangements had been made, casket and clothes and crematorium and urn, place of interment and travel plans for out-of-towners and catering. Once there were no more calls to make and every mourner who had to be properly greeted, placated and fed, had left, and it was just them, just _her_ with nothing left to do, then, she broke. As long as she was busy everything was fine. But sitting there that night, alone in her dark kitchen, counters and table peppered with the leftovers none of them would eat, her hands were empty. With nothing to do, she couldn't keep it in any longer. With no plans to distract her, she couldn't deny it any more.

She hasn't stopped crying since.

Sam, on the other hand, had yet to really start.

There were moments – that first night without her, sitting up and _waiting_ as though there were something to wait for, as though she might actually return, come sauntering in just past curfew. And calling Rachel. Calling her so early in the morning, waking her long before she'd ever intended on getting up, not having had a class scheduled until noon, and hearing her go utterly silent on the other end, breath stilling, voice stopping. He'd wondered if her heart had even halted mid-beat. And then she said, "No," quiet and deep and firm, a denial, an invocation, a grief-filled plea.

But Sam had been through enough grief in his life to know that crying never did any good, wishing and hoping and praying, letting his mind roll through all the _what-if_'s and _but-for_'s, wouldn't bring her back. Wouldn't mitigate his pain. So he did nothing. Sitting and staring aimlessly at any near diversion, the television, the window, the little girl dancing and laughing and trying so desperately to cheer them all up – Samantha, a little whirlwind just like Michael, with hair as dark and wavy as his Maya.

He would sit, slumped and bent, beaten and broken, _not _thinking about her, working so hard to _not _think of his little girl when she was that age, any age, just last week even when she so uncharacteristically whispered an _I love you_ before heading out, never to come back. He had gotten so good, over the past several days, at being _still_ that sometimes the only thing he could hear was the rush of his own blood through his veins, his own traitorous heart beating out a mournful rhythm in his chest.

He was too young to remember the death of his mother, the one event that, more so than any other, had shaped and formed his life. And what he hadn't blocked out of those days and weeks following Jessica's fiery demise – and _Jessica_, it'd been so long since he'd thought of her – had been primarily _find dad, figure out what happened. Why, why, why?_

His father's death brought simple sorrow, a long denied ache for the man he never really knew. But no matter how much of a shock it had been at the time, to find him dead and gone on that cold linoleum floor, the fact that he fell was never a surprise. He'd been asking for it for over twenty years.

This…death, this loss, seems like so much more. Even without thinking, without really feeling, he knows that this will shape and alter the remainder of his days, an ever-present absence that looms just in his periphery, no matter how much time passes, how much revenge enacted, how much good blossomed from it. It's like his mother all over again, fleeting images rushing through his mind of what could have been, what never will be.

Where once he thought of bedtime stories and booboos kissed away, blond hair falling like a curtain over his face when tucked in at night, the scent of fresh baked cookies greeting him when coming home from school in the afternoons, now he dreams of a tall lithe girl drowning in a cheap polyester cap and gown, so joyful, having overcome so much. A long white aisle, looking simultaneously like a plank off the ship and the yellow brick road, handing over his daughter to a man he surely knows well, more than approves of. Holding his grandchild in his arms, noticing her dark hair and dark eyes, and thinking to himself, _my baby_.

The rest of his life, he knows, will be peppered by those sweet and simple images of a future lost.

So he sits, still as can be, enveloped in his own little world, his own little hell where thinking about Maya is too much to bear, and forgetting her is akin to murder.

And then there's Rachel. Rachel who, being four years older than her sister, was never anything other than a protective force, a guarding entity, even when neither wanted her to be.

She gave her bottles as a baby, Maya's tiny form taking up her whole lap as she sat Indian-style on the couch, Mom or Dad, or Aunt Ava or Uncle Dean, perching by her side should the baby roll – as though she'd ever let her fall. She helped change her diapers, small wooden chair placed by the side of the changing table just for her, to stand on so she could see, so she could easily hand over wipes or powder, distract Maya with silly faces or goofy voices while she squirmed.

Even then, Maya was hard to please, every smile earned. Every giggle hard-won. And Rachel took on the challenge with fervor and glee.

She may have been young, but she can still remember Dean putting her to bed one night – because in those days, with a small child and two brand new babies, the Winchesters took up an almost communal lifestyle, sharing the parenting, the responsibilities – and telling her she was the best big sister ever.

Because she shared her toys, at least the ones that weren't her favorites. And she was always ready and willing to help, with either baby really, though Maya appeared to be her pride and joy. Because as they got older, she'd kept her sister from drowning in the tub during bath time, managed to etch wide grins on her little moody face by building bubble castles and beards. She brushed and braided her hair when Mom was too busy, Dad too clumsy with his giant fingers, and taught the bunny method of shoe tying, just like her dad taught her, just like Dean had taught him.

But all those reasons meant nothing, _were_ nothing, not now.

Maybe if they hadn't been so far apart in age, or if Maya hadn't grown even moodier with time, transitioning into a tyrant of a teenager. Maybe if Rachel hadn't been so eager to have a life of her own – training, seemingly _for_ her sister and cousins, though really for herself, having friends and boyfriends and academic successes, going to college, _away_ to college. Maybe if she had been here, even just for a visit, just last week. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But they had grown apart, each having their own interests and lives. And even when together, during training sessions or mere lazy afternoons in front of the TV, each girl knew that she no longer really _knew_ the other. Because if she had actually _known_, realized what was going on inside her sister's head, in her heart, then maybe…maybe.

She knows it won't make any damn bit of difference now, but she says it none the less, feels the words travel over her tongue, tumble into the air, the huge space between herself and her father. "I'm not going back."

He looks up, her words seeming to have startled him as though he hadn't known she was there, hadn't sensed her presence looming in the doorway for the past several minutes, waiting and watching. Watching as Sam stared eerily off at nothing. "What?" he asks simply.

"I'm not going back," she repeats, voice so small it nearly breaks his heart, as though there were anything left to break. "To school," she adds, almost as a question, her eyes pleading with him for…something.

He looks away, the sudden realization that he's not the only one in pain, that though one daughter may be dead the other is almost _dying_, being too much to bear. Clearing his throat with a forced casualty he asks, "Why not?"

"Because I don't want to," she responds, tone of a child, not the twenty-year-old woman she has become.

"Okay." He nods his head absently, chances a glance back up at her so familiar face, her now glistening eyes. "Okay," he repeats, softer than before, and he scoots over a bit on the couch, an unspoken invitation for her to join him.

She does, crossing the room in three long strides and lowering herself cautiously down next to him. They both sit staunchly still for one long moment, the only sound in the room being their breathing, a rhythm that seems to match so effortlessly. He places one large, warm hand on her knee. She drops her weary head to his shoulder, falling seamlessly into him.

Her hair smells like oranges, tangerines. California. "You sure you want to stay here?" he whispers to the top of her head. She nods against him. "I thought you really liked it there," he says, knowing it's true. As much he loved his time at Stanford, so often longed to go back, he could tell she loved his Alma Matter even more. She _belonged_ there.

"I want to stay," she says, nothing but uncertainty in her voice.

He pulls his hand from her knee, loops his arm around her, pulling her close, leaning back with her into the soft cushions of the couch. And he doesn't say a word, not at first. Because the fact of the matter is, he wants her to stay too. He needs it. And though he's barely exchanged two words with Sarah over the last few days, he has a feeling she'd want it too. But it's not about him, or her, or what either of them in their grief filled stupor may want.

She cries against him, silent tears soaking through his shirt. Silent and unobtrusive, like all the Winchesters had managed to perfect throughout the years. This is the legacy he's left for his children, for his _child_, a quiet, lonely, ashamed method of dealing with grief, one that had come from too much practice. And it isn't right.

"Maybe you should finish out the semester first," he says, voice grim and raspy.

She stiffens in his arms, pulls away just enough to sit upright before him, glare into his eyes. "You don't want me to stay?" she says, teary tone tearing him apart.

He can feel the onslaught rising, all those tears so long repressed forcing their way up his throat, making his words hard and choked. "No, baby. No, it's not that."

She stares at him, studies his face, notices how much it's seemed to age just within the past week. "Dad," she starts, reaching a hand out to his cheek. "Daddy," she squeaks, forcing his eyes shut to hold off the tears. "I'm sorry. So sorry."

He shakes his head and scoffs, though it comes out more like a cry. "You didn't do anything, Rache."

Her face drops, red-rimmed eyes falling to her lap. "Exactly," she mutters, guilt, regret, and a sort of jaded bitterness her words had never held before.

"No," he says, nearly booms, voice so deep and firm she startles, memories of impending punishments, awful arguments rising to the surface. But of course she's not in trouble, realizes that as he grasps her chin in his hand, brings it up to meet his gaze. "You did nothing wrong." Tears stream down his face, long glistening lines of beautiful agony setting a sheen to his pale skin. "It wasn't your fault," he says slowly, trying to bore the words into her, make them true whether they really are or not.

She wants to believe him, she does. But she can't, every voice in her head berating her for not being there when it mattered, not being there _at all_. For missing any clues, not even bothering to _look_ for any. For being ignorant and complacent and simply _gone_. "I'm sorry," she whispers again, face contorting with real sobs this time, no silent, masked tears, just white-hot heaving, choking sobs. "I'm sorry," barely even discernable.

This is the legacy he's left his children, his _child_. A sense of guilt for every wrong not done, every tragedy not prevented. A feeling of aching responsibility for every person loved, unnamable, undeniable culpability for every person lost.

He holds her tight, never wanting to let go, and tries to shut his eyes against the pain, the tears, halting his own lament just long enough to breathe into her hair, "_I'm_ sorry. So sorry," before rocking her slowly, steadily, like when she was so young, so new, so…untouched. "So, so sorry."


	22. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: I. Own. Nothing.

Author's Note: Two in one day! Oh will the horrid despair never cease?!

* * *

He hadn't realized it'd been there, thin, delicately lined pages encased in a leather just worn enough to suit her, buried beneath his pillow. Her journal.

She never told him about certain things, those more disturbing, less apparent aspects of her dreams. The fact that her _gift_ was likely demon given, every sight wished unseen, every inkling turned reality, borne from an evil he never knew existed, one she still so often denied.

But he knew more than she thought, catching clips of phrases tossed throughout either of their houses. He was a smart kid, smart enough to know when things he shouldn't hear were being said, smart enough to know to keep his mouth shut about it all, pretend to live in the ignorance they all wanted for him.

Because if there was ever one thing John Winchester was aware of, it was the hearts of others. If there was one thing he was unwilling to disturb, it was the walls they built up around them.

He knew that Maya had dreams, frightening, _real_ dreams that she never wanted to admit to. And there were times she'd share her dreams with him, always prefacing with a desperate look of avoidance, a _you shouldn't know, I shouldn't say_ sort of sheen to her eyes, that whether truly intended or not, he recognized every time.

And he abided by their silent promises. She would share, and he would never tell.

He knew that both sets of parents, his and hers, were too concerned about her sleeping habits to be anywhere near normal. And he knew that their old family friend, Bobby, took far too great an interest in her dreams for them to be anything nearly as benign as nightmares were so often thought to be.

Maya told him about the journal, nearly six years ago when Bobby first gave her the blank book. She told him that she was supposed to write all about her dreams, as soon as she woke, leaving no detail out, recording every image, every thought related to them. She'd said it as though even the idea were too much to bear, too much trouble to take on. But in her eyes there shone a resolve John sometimes thought only he could see and recognize. And he knew how important that journal would become.

In six years time she'd managed to fill only one book. The second, deep rich leather cover just like the first, he'd never even seen before. Before now. The first she'd always kept by her bedside, on the table near her pillow. It was there all the time, every day, every night.

This one, she had kept hidden, unexplainable secrecy being a trait he'd never cease to associate with his cousin.

And yet here it is, every dream she'd had for the better part of a year, painstakingly embossed on pure white pages, one folded into the next, butting against another. A leather clad compendium of memories that were not her own and a future she'd never be a part of.

He knows what it is the moment he sees it, knows it's the new one, not the first, thought the two are outwardly nearly identical. And he knows he doesn't want to read it, doesn't want any part of it.

She left it for him. Here, under his pillow where he was sure to find it. Only he'd barely been in his room for the past week, since her death, splitting his time between school, home and her house, her family, helping in any way he could. He'd gone to the airport to pick up Rachel when she flew in from Stanford, helped cook meals no one ever ate, did laundry that didn't really need doing. Anything, everything.

Part of him didn't want to leave her house, her voice still echoing from the floorboards, smell still clinging to the air. And when he did return home he usually forfeited the good night's rest he so desired for yet another task, traipsing into Samantha's room, wrapping himself loosely around her until she finally fell asleep, and then curling up on an old sleeping bag on the floor below. She hadn't asked him to, he just knew it was what she needed, being the smallest, currently the most insignificant, overlooked.

This is the first time he'd allowed himself to lay in his own bed in eight days. And he can't help but think that it's a mistake.

It all makes sense, and yet none of it does. She'd called an hour before the party – the one that he'd berated himself everyday for the last week for not attending. Never mind that he hadn't been invited by anyone, hadn't even been told about it in the halls, not even by Maya, which was strange in itself. She'd asked if she could borrow his leather jacket, the terribly worn, so often repaired one that had once belonged to his father, given to him when he first managed to seamlessly switch gears in the Impala. It was the same one they recovered, lying nice and neat and clean, in the trunk of the car she wrecked that night.

He'd told her _fine_, he wasn't going anywhere, wouldn't be using it. And when she rushed in forty-five minutes later, bounding up the stairs to his room without so much as a _hello_, he didn't think anything of it. Because this was Maya, the image of her racing around their house as common as that of his little brother or sister.

The jacket had been on his chair. In his room, where she flew off to seeming in such a hurry, Joe waiting in the car. And though he can't recall having seen it stashed beneath her arm as she blew by, she must have had the journal with her then. Which would mean, she must have known what was to happen, _then_.

And, _God help him_, he doesn't want to read it, doesn't want to crack the binding, peer at the pages where her words collected, imprinted by her unmistakable hand – thick and messy letters. But he doesn't have a choice. She left it here for him. She _wanted _him to have it, _needed_ him to read it.

He doesn't have a choice.

He tells his dad the simple truth. He found Maya's journal. They need to take it back, return it to Sam and Sarah. Now.

And Dean starts to question, tries to, but each time he opens his mouth, _What do you mean found it? Where? How? _ready to drip from his too confused tongue, his son's eyes stop him. Because they're far from steady, glistening gaze _pleading_ with him not to ask.

It takes some coaxing to get Sarah downstairs, finally appearing dressed and ready for bed as though she were simply trying for an early start – it being only eight o'clock – when in reality she'd barely been out of bed, or those clothes, going on three days now. But in typical Sarah fashion she does join them in the living room, always eager to put up that false front, keep others from dishing out any pity on her behalf. She sits cautiously, perched on the very edge of the couch as though eagerly awaiting her dismissal.

It wasn't rare for them to be there, not odd at all, all the Winchesters having floated in and out of Sam and Sarah's house forever, hardly ever leaving over the past week and a half. But this was different. And though the small noninvasive talk begins their meeting, it's clear that something else has brought this little visit about.

It's a long and awkward moment before anyone speaks, a long and awkward sizing up of all present – swollen-eyed Sarah clinging too tightly to the sweater wrapped around her. Hunched and broken Sam, empty gaze trailing out the window at nothing. Nervously twitching Dean, dancing from foot to foot in the corner of the room, uncomfortable, wary. And John, tight and small, a posture mirroring Sarah's, though he stands, back pressed against the wall.

It's Dean who finally says something, never one to easily take forced silence. "John said he found Maya's journal," he mutters slowly, without preface.

His words seem to echo through the room, deep and loud in relation to the silence their house has grown accustomed to recently. Sam straightens and stares, eyes shooting a confused look at John even as he asks his brother, "What do you mean, _found_?"

"Where?" Sarah spits quickly, red-rimmed eyes suddenly wide and wild.

And it's all John can do to even stutter out, all frantic eyes on him, "Under my pillow."

"What?" Sam asks, face contorting in a confused grimace. "How…"

"She came over, before the party," Dean says softly, voice carrying with it a knowing edge, a terse almost rehearsed quality, as though he realized the truth long ago. As though he somehow knew all along.

John turns to face his father, questioning gaze falling to his sullen eyes. He had pieced much of it together, that was clear. But the pain and fear etched into his features makes him certain that the realization is still quite fresh.

"She wanted to borrow my jacket," he says, eyes still locked with Dean's. "That's what she said." He turns slowly to his uncle, sees him sitting small – and he never thought that would be a word used to describe him – and still, mouth loosely hanging open, not an ounce of understanding on his face. "She ran up to my room to get it, must've left her journal up there when she did."

Sarah laughs, an oddly maniacal sort of snort, before saying, "That's ridiculous. Why would she take that with her? It's only for," she stops short, realizing suddenly that John doesn't, or shouldn't, know about her _dreams_. The look she shoots him makes that plainly apparent.

So he turns away, averting his gaze down at his scuffed shoes. "I know what it's for," he mumbles almost to himself.

Dean's firm when he asks, "How?" Almost angry when he demands, "What do you know?"

And John doesn't beat around the bush, never has, having inherited a sort of terse directness from his father, an unabashedly frank quality from his mother. "I know she had dreams. And she had to write about them, record them." He looks up, locks identical eyes with his father, both sets glowing green, currently pleading helplessly. "She told me," he says simply. "She told me first," punctuating the last word with a sort of absolute authority.

Silence reigns a moment more, everyone merely soaking up all that just been said. Until, "Did she let you read it?" comes from Sarah in a near squeak. Because the journal was always only for Maya, a thing to help her remember, aid in putting together the too often jagged fragments of her unconscious mind. It was a record, but not one to share. She was always supposed to keep her parents aware of her dreams, be open and honest regarding them. But she never handed over her little book, it being too personal, too important.

John shakes his head, "No," trailing from nearly quivering lips.

Sam drops his face into his hands, seems to speak to the floor in absolute exhaustion when he says, "Then why do you have it?"

"I didn't notice," he tries to explain, the words no longer making sense once out in the open. "I hadn't slept in my room, on my pillow," he sputters. "I didn't notice until today…that it was there. But it was. She left it. For me. I know she did."

Barely a breath is heard as Sam's head slowly rises from his palms, calm, unreadable expression juxtaposing his fiery eyes. "Why would she do that?" he bites out.

And it wouldn't be entirely a lie to say that his uncle's words alone, laced with such hostility, intimidated him into utter stillness. But the real truth was simple. He didn't want to say what had to be said, what they'd all been contemplating for nearly two weeks, no one brave enough to voice.

"John," breaks him from his reverie, his total stagnation, his father's soft yet commanding tone calling him to attention, ordering him to _answer the question_. As though he could, as though he really had any answers at all.

"I think she knew," he nearly whispers.

"Knew?" Sarah questions, her voice drawing his eyes to her. "Knew…about the accident?" she asks, words rounded and bloated with a childish sort of hope, an innocent kind of longing that John would _never_ before have associated with his always together, always strong, quick-witted, fearsome aunt.

He struggles against the dam of tears in his throat, the pleas from his heart, readies himself to say something to the effect of, "I think she knew she was going to die," an easy and relatively painless version of the truth. But when he opens his mouth what come out is neither easy nor painless. "I don't think it was an accident."

Sam rises, all six foot four inches of him looming dangerously in front of John. "What do you mean?" he asks, all in one halted breath.

Before he can answer Dean is at his back, stilling hand rising to his brother's shoulder in an act of calming intervention. John sees this and thinks everything is under control, his father is ready, whatever Sam's reaction may be.

But he's wrong. Because there's no way to be prepared for, "She did it," sliding from his lips like the tears seeping from his eyes, words and saline both dropping in perfect devastating unison.

Sam doesn't even bother shrugging off his brother's hand, doesn't need to, his body lurching forward so quickly, so uncontrollably, that Dean's hand falls away as though never even there. And he connects, hard, with his nephew, slamming the boy into the wall with such a force that the house seems to shake, trinkets falling from the shelves.

John's sixteen now, nearly a man, but he's slight in build, no longer short, but no where near his uncle's height. By no means weak, but no where near his uncle's strength. So it's all he can do twist and cower uselessly within his grip.

Peering over Sam's shoulder, he can see his father working to pull him off, hands trying desperately to get a hold, get between. He can even hear, barely piercing the din, his panicked, "Sam! Sam!"

But the only thing he's really able to focus on is the absolute tenacity of his uncle's grip, the undeniable fear in his glistening eyes, the uncontrollable waver in his livid voice. "Don't you dare. Don't you fucking _dare_ say that about her," each word slithering from between his clenched teeth, echoing in John's too guilty conscience.

"Get. Off," finally breaks through in strangled tones, his father's voice, as Dean manages to break the two apart, still taking a moment to untangle Sam's fingers from John's shirt.

And he doesn't know why he says it, not really. But something about having his father so near, his hands on his chest, a gentle, reassuring touch, sends him back to a time when all things made sense. When everything was _supposed_ to make sense. So with his uncle's back to him, his father's face torn before him, he mutters, "She wouldn't have done it if there was any other way." Nearly cries out, tears now steadily streaming down his face, "She wouldn't. There was no other way."

His father's hands rise up to his face, hold tight to either side of his head before pulling him forward, wrapping around him in an embrace so longed for and familiar, it almost makes him think that maybe his words are true.

He cries, steady, unabashed tears flowing to his father's shoulder. And Dean lets him. Because at this moment he's not _nearly a man_ at all. He his little sandy-haired boy, who cries at the drop of a hat, not because he's weak, but because he feels it all so strongly. And he wishes he could take that away, just as he had all those years ago when John's grief over mere trivialities seemed almost too much for him to bear.

And this pain, real and true and so like his own, yet more powerful, more forceful, can almost be felt rolling off him in waves. Fear. Grief. Guilt. Sorrow. And he can do nothing to halt the tides. He can only hold his boy through it.

"Do you have it?" Sarah asks, her voice breaking through the long moment of silent tears. "The journal," she clarifies when Dean's red streaked face turns her way.

He lets go of John, slowly, patting his back reassuringly as he does so, and reaches into his jacket pocket, finding it there, right where he'd tucked it safely away when John handed it over. He offers the worn leather book to her, but she makes no move to accept it, can't bring her hands to rise up and grab it. So he simply sets it down on the coffee table before her, where she takes one long look at it's too familiar binding, before rising to leave, footsteps on the creaky stairs echoing her ascent.

"I'm sorry," Sam ekes out from the other side of the room. And though no one, not even Sam, is quite certain whom he's apologizing to, or why, John offers a shrug of forgiveness.

He pushes himself off the wall slowly, moving timidly past his father as he bends down to pick up the journal. Sam turns when he reaches him, sensing the presence at his back, and instinctively holds out his hand to accept what is offered. "I didn't read it," he says, words tarnished with tears. "You can," he mutters, wrapping Sam's long fingers around the leather. "I couldn't. But you can."

And it's only because his nephew's declaration seems so strong and true that he makes himself open the book.


	23. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: ** Still own nothing.

**Author's Note:** Because it seems rather silly for this series to continue to be called Future's So Bright... what with recent developments and all, and because it's already so long, this is going to be the final chapter. But, oh, do not despair! There will be a sequel, named **Lineage**, which should begin very soon, and, like this story, will, I _promise_, have tons of fun and humorous parts interwoven around the angst. 

* * *

The house is quiet, Dean and John having left hours before, barely a word spoken between the three as they headed out, leaving that dreaded journal in his hands.

Sarah, as has been the case for so long now, is in bed, alone. Crying, no doubt, maybe fitfully sleeping through the tears. And Rachel left two days ago to head back to school, finally agreeing to, at the very least, _try_ and finish out the semester.

And Maya is, still and always, he reminds himself, gone.

So the house echoes with the sort of silence it hasn't experienced in twenty years time, not since before he and Sarah moved in, made it their home, the place to raise their family, host parties and get-togethers, watch as five sets of tiny feet went from tapping out first steps to pounding viciously on the hardwood floors.

Even just a couple of weeks before _silence_ had been a foreign state for this home, this very room, as John and Maya moved furniture to the corners, _supervised,_ and giggled, as Samantha taught Michael how to plie.

At night, things tended to be quieter, especially since Rachel left and took her too loud emo music with her. But there was still…life, still a sense of joyous, or perhaps irately adolescent, noise to come. Now there was nothing.

So Sam doesn't go to bed, can't. Not just because he knows that sleep will certainly not come, not with that terrible buzzing _lack_ of sound in his ears. And not just because he has no desire to melt into his wife's bitter pain, let _her_ tears lull him into fitful slumber, _her_ display of grief mocking his inability to so much as _feel_ that same loss.

No, he doesn't go because that awful little leather-bound book simply won't let him.

He's always prided himself on minding his kids' privacy, never being one of those parents who rifles through sock drawers looking for condoms, or sneaks into their email accounts to check correspondences. He's always trusted them, even when they may not have really deserved it. And for some reason, though she's not here to get angry and yell, slam her door and scream right through it in that angry teenage fashion, even though she's not here to call it such, reading her journal now still feels like a betrayal, like a break in trust.

It was left for John, _she_ left it for John. And that smarts like a slap across the face. Not just because he's her father, but because he'd said, time and time again, _you can talk to me, come to me. I know._

John didn't have any psychic dreams. John hadn't been haunted in his sleep by a murderous demon. John didn't know about all the _stuff_ Sam did.

But maybe that was the point. John _didn't _have any psychic dreams. John _hadn't_ been haunted in his sleep by a murderous demon. John didn't _know_ about anything. John was simply her best friend, confidant. Her only real tie to the sane world.

And because of that, perhaps she thought it'd be easier, safer, to leave her journal in his hands. But the fact still remains that John is…John. Too sweet and too careful to bring himself to read what he must have thought was his cousin's suicide note.

_Suicide_.

He couldn't read it. But he _believed_ that Sam could. He convinced him, if only with his large sad eyes, his utterly sincere conviction, that someone had to do it. That Sam was stronger, braver, somehow capable. That, no matter whom Maya had left this awful legacy to, it was only right for Sam to read it first.

So he does, flipping slowly, cautiously through the messy scrawls, too big letters written in child's print by a young woman's hand.

He takes in every detail, reading, rereading, scouring each and every entry for some clue, some hidden message or meaning. But most are of no real consequence, visions of things past, glimpses of those to come. An argument between him and Sarah when they were first starting out, first deciding to live together despite barely knowing each other at all. A longwinded description of _Grandpa John_, sitting alone in the dark with a bottle of bourbon before him – no action, save long sips and contemplative stares.

And there were others, more positive in nature, dreams he could tell she had enjoyed, had hoped they wouldn't end, just by the whimsical tilt to her letters, run-on quality of the sentences. One, dated some four months prior, talks about Dean's fiftieth birthday party – a surprise even for the man no one could keep a secret from, a surprise even to himself, she notes, as _Uncle Dean never felt younger, more alive_.

Every detail of that night Sam can remember clear as day, the simple sort of joy their family would undoubtedly never be able to regain. It was the last time they all were together – Rachel returning for the event as well – and though it was only last month, it now seems like decades ago.

Deep into the book he finds a dream he never expected to, a description of a day he thought he knew so well. It's a vision of her own birth, detailing in the most vivid detail how utterly calm and at peace Sarah had been – in part likely due to drugs – during the scheduled C-section. She wrote about the joy and relief, palpable in the room upon welcoming another girl into their family. Her mother's eyes, wide pupils blanketing over the color of her irises, exuding love, life.

He reads it slowly, soaking it up, taking in every detail he'd long ago forgotten or was too distracted to notice, comes to realize that he had not been nearly as present or aware as he should have been that day, so much of her retelling surprising him, sparking some sort of _I knew that, I should have known that_ chide in his brain.

Nearly an entire page is devoted – in her wide and misshapen letters – to Sam first holding her, rocking slowly, swinging from side to side at his hips in an often rehearsed motion, staring haplessly at her tiny pink form. He tries to remember just what that felt like, to hold his baby in his arms for the first time, but it was so long ago, in another time, another world.

Rachel holds her too, a moment Sam _does_ clearly recall, her sitting by her mother's side on her hospital bed, Sarah's arm falling lazily round the little girl's hip. It's the next day, very next morning, and he distinctly remembers him not having slept at all, sitting either by his wife's bedside, watching as her chest rose and fell with steady breaths, or standing at the nursery window, watching as his yet unnamed daughter's tiny torso did the same.

Yet this is the memory _he_ holds so dear, remembers so well, with such clarity. Rachel smiling bright, turning her round little face up to him and saying, _sure, she can come home with us_ before scooting further into Sarah's side, all three of his girls huddled into one sweet and cozy mass. He smiles despite himself, expression feeling foreign on his face.

But that's where the good times end, remembrances of a birth she should never have recalled being replaced by visions of a death she never should have seen.

The date on the next page reads September 14, day before she died, day before she drove herself into a wall, fast enough to ensure that whatever she had seen would never come to be. This is the entry that seems to stop his heart from beating, stills his breath, catching it tightly in his chest.

_There's so much blood, all over the floor, all over my hands. All over her. But I barely even notice, just keep on going, cutting deeper, like I'm trying to cut her heart right out of her chest. Maybe I am. I don't know. I don't why I'd do such a thing. I don't know why I will._

_But she makes me mad, so mad. Always telling me what to do and how to do it. And the things she says about him…I know they're true. But I also know she's a liar. I hate her. I can't stand to look at her. I can't stop cutting, can't slice deep enough, can't get enough of her blood on my hands. I can smell the copper._

_And I like it. And I hate it. Because she's my sister._

_But then he shows up again. And he says they're traitors to the cause, all of them. She is too, even though she had nothing to do with his death. _

_It doesn't make any sense. He won't even tell me what the cause is. He never tells me anything._

_He says he's shown me all I need to see, and that's all I need to know. But I don't even know what it is I've seen, or what, of all I've seen, he's shown me. Because Soren used to say that no matter how I got my gift, who gave it to me or why, it's mine, and I can control it. I used to think he was right._

_But he tells me different, says I only see what he wants me to._

_I had that dream again, after all her blood drained out onto the floor, I had the dream with him and Dad and Grandma Mary. The one where she dies. And he talks to her before the fire starts, or she talks to him, like she knows him, like she's known him all along. I don't know why I can't hear what they're saying, can't make it out. Maybe it's just because he doesn't want me to._

_But once the fire starts and the baby, my dad, cries, he comes over to me and I can make out his words perfectly. He tells me I'm his, I belong to him. She said so. And I know, I just know that it's true._

Sam closes the book, fast and hard, presses his eyes shut tight. And he moves quickly, rising from the couch and rushing into the kitchen, gathering the lighter fluid and matches from the top of the pantry – away from tiny hands though all the hands in their house had been too large for too long now. And he tosses the journal into the sink, dousing it with far more fluid than necessary, enough to create flames that will forever pock and scar their wall and ceiling.

He burns it, every bit of it. The entry about Dean having a Winchester rifle backfire into him when he was 14, laughing maniacally through the pain at the irony of it. The one about Sam dropping Rachel, slippery from her bath, only once, it only happened once, when she was barely a month old, and no one had been there to see, no one had known. The vision of a pedophile being sent to prison, the outcome of one of his finest cases, helped by a psychic tip from his own daughter.

The entry about her birth, in all it's beautiful detail that he couldn't stand to recall.

And the one about her death, several pages later, the one he hadn't even turned to, hadn't known existed. The one he hadn't even thought to look for.

The pages brown and curl, thick burning flesh scent of melting leather covering and concealing all the truths that had been shown to her, that she had tried so desperately to show them all.


End file.
